Metronome, on gender, I believe you.
On memory, I do not.
On desire—on transfiguration—
The stars were lifted
like caskets. Every house became one
house. He boarded up her door. The foal
got up, sat down. She banged and banged. Flowers
shook in their vases. I’ve never been in love,
said the sand. A child draws into it with a stick.
The desire for surprise,
the artist says, is an immature im-
pulse. My head is locked in a box.
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