[response to “My old Russian Carpet”]

Walking through the square I like to shake my carpet, remove the old leaves, dirty napkins, falafels and shoe strings, so that I can fold it back onto itself, southwest corner reversed under the northeast, my cell phone conversations doubled back into the atmospheric noise, your hand that is not your hand, her hand that never accepted the vegan cookie and laughed anyway, jungle gyms inverted into parabolas where we sat cradled, fire eaten prophalactics and half-a-day magicians and the League of Nations side by side in extra dimensional train cars in my closet.


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