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Leora Fridman




You have a recycled bottle here,


like I have a collection of stamps.


We lie about liking them.


We like newness stabbed in the chest.


We like pouring forward, the viscous terrible stock.


Like sneakers with small spokes that snag the ground, you have a waste-regret.

            You’re digging seed-homes with your own weight.




The uncommunicative containers keep


poking me in my bruises.


They take up three times the space of their volume,


and a paper bag.


The massaged submissive mash we have to make now.

It would be easier if I didn’t have to see the new shape.


Maybe the man who molds them has an all-concrete house.

He cooks wood only. His smoke is caught in pipes and discharged up higher,

or allowed to shoot from a vertical cannon, fast into the sky.

He thinks if he accelerates emission the ozone hole will spot him.

He’ll be the one zipped away first.


Anyone can get spotted by the ozone, all ultraviolet and wide.

Anything about it reviving itself is hokum.

Anything about the mail being wasteful is

pure apocalypse.

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