Machine for Jean Rhys
It’s all lit up with handfuls
& eyefuls & it doesn’t want you
because that’s what you want.
Flicker, the land shrugs off
its scape, flicker, the trees fall
away. If la lumière is stoppered
in bottles what is the light
over there? What in the world
do you want in the world?
If the café had stayed,
the waiter would know.
If those eyes were
your own, you might also.
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