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Vanessa
Place
She snores softly in her sleep. I weep and
wait for red to go green at the corner of the
Boulevard, as orange-suited men fill holes
with black pitch near a gazebo whose corners
are silver ladies of the silver screen, sirens
like the one twirling top that ambulance, my
tires nose the crosswalk as I snap my fingers
in two-thirds time, dancing while we lean against
the white bars of our waiting, if you dropped
a penny in my eye and made a wish, there’d
be a longish silence then a faint plop as the
disc hit the sea then sank to what depths we’re
not certain, but meantime my turn signal ti-tacks-ti-tacks-ti-tacks
and refuses to tock. How are you? I’m
fine. We’re all of us blank and fine.
I weep and dance to the Geistegschichte while
we wait and wonder if this final funneling
of fact has come correct, if order and happy
coincidence (She snores so sweetly, she snores so softly.)
Vanessa Place is the author of a 50,000-word, one-sentence novel, Dies: A Sentence (Les Figues, 2005). She lives in Los Angeles.
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