A False Force After All

Dog-eared becomes
a symbol, a brand, that act
of defilement your grandmother
warned you about. Who remembers

where they were? The angle
they approached the image from? Who
remembers which image? To recall
the young woman nodding off

next to you in a packed auditorium,
the color of the floor
beneath your feet, how her head
bobbed and drooped

toward her man, then you
(no drool) is
to be

a bookmark floating
on an liquid crystal display sea.
The height of the podium,
the last thing you drank

before entering the ball
room. The play
of words suspended
from an unidentifiable drop

ceiling before they settle
onto a page—folding down
a top edge of translucent
thought. Dog-eared.

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