& the remote yeilds 10,000 static-ether surfaces.
Peter is channel surfing.
Candy shapes,
ribbon-legs, and Old Spice clamour to spike
the dumb stone we are carved from, to
crawl right out from the screen and kiss
us on the lips. In
the mean time, we hump beer kegs.
& Later,
in bed with Peter,
his arms go around-- what?
While he pulls in breath
so sleepy & desperate, as a red man tanked & hosed underwater,
I flicker as a sentinal of shapes: a bird, a jug, six
dominoes, sedge along a creek bed. click
like a t.v. set.
click, click click.
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