Nora Almeida

Please and Amphitheater

The broken speaker stops
the whole room from filling
your miracle machine with paper
phrases. The projector smokes
and throws anthems and pictograms.
I cannot go on living
like a starfish in the silence the ocean demands.
I try to imagine what it is like
to look at you that stupid way
you are always practicing
at being involved in a sleep study.
Rise above the crank camera’s
leaky hotel footage. Breathy and serene
clean sheet sleeping in the
alarm closet with a spare lamp. Alone
in the parking garage writing poetry
that way. When you read
the shower scene with a madras and
foreign language words in the first act
and become a jar of rusted peonies
no one will hardly notice.
The ersatz moon is a simple ridge
of plain newsprint. The coffee is
water. The pauses long
  for reprieve or applause.

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