Opening and closing my hand
I feel words forming in them
The last bright star at the end
of the day goes down, down, down.
Now the entire town is orange and
on fire
Each letter melts like an M&M
I am the S to my M, and U
is between them, not "them"
"Them" sandwiches E.
He could have said anything
and I would have opened and closed my mouth
over his.
The clock blinks midnight in red.
It's a new machine, not yet set.
I have a word in my hand for you
and some numbers, too.
Will you, will you recieve them now, or me?
I am in the service of M,
but U is before, and I am S
Some of us crouch down to pick up
a torn piece of notebook paper from blacktop or
concrete sidewalks, then read the words.
I cut out and count each letter as they fall.
I keep a small pair of children's scissors in my back pocket
and a pocket notebook tucked between
my arm and side.
I rearrange the letters, dismantling their orignal meaning
to mean something new, something else, something
other than what they meant once.
And once the recreation's complete
I read them aloud to people crossing streets
at intersections, or counting down the blinking
red hand and numbers.
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