| Kate Lutzner USA inside my house on the side of the universe where my house is the part that is turning gently in i ripen two varieties of fruit the actress wringing her hands is playing me i am forgetting the role and she, well, she volunteered my mother, that old woman, has put her face in a glass of water the act of drowning and age having consumed her for years my mother mastered death before learning to walk, it seems infants have been known to commit suicide in their dreams the cat moving its feet is fast asleep the room of my apartment so small, i wonder perhaps this is proof of what we do not know, as well proof of my mother and her insecurity feeding off purses she gets for free and books, and comfortable tubes of lipstick, all she can fit in her arm, her mouth stealing, that drug, holds its intoxication the man in the bed next to me feels the peach in the window i know the impossibility of sun and room ripening it that anything besides me turns sour in his mouth
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