The long memory, spirals in a night sky—
cold and focused
taking her shit in Plato’s cave—
the newspapers like living rock
have a last question, are forever, or…
scattered; red twine
bundles like stacks of folded trousers

in some future work camp beside a river.
(One of Man Ray’s girlfriends,
the suspicious blonde, scratching
a small shadow of breast—
should have been enough,
she muttering, fuck-that
the simple flirty) sonnet.