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It’s like we have the same conversation punctuated by years.

There’s you persuading me if I give Jean-Michel another

chance, he won’t steal my pictures of the green bus seats

again. And there I am, I’m watching, flipping through books,

attempting eye contact with no one, knowing no one,

no one is ever safe here. There’s an image I like, but most

I do not, that sloppy electric brake light flickering,

and how can anyone trust that much yellow anyhow?

I give him a chance, and he steals. And who can trust

that much yellow anyhow, your messages they perplex

me with their lack of continuity, so many ellipses like

with statements ending, only stuttering, these echoes

that surround and then surrender. These certainties

you scribble-scrabble, make up your mind and step on.

Dance as decrepit boxers find their way to movie screens

stagger-step and stand, toss their discards onto floor.

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