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Poetry #7
(published Late in the Year, 2000)
Transporter Room
by Sean Norton

Blank wall, forever enshrouding the further
blank walls. Precursor and plane of projection,
onto your surface the elegant fading, that felling

of feeling, that nimble nausea, mind weeding:
I drift back to the draft of other places
at the least needling it seems, the radio

or CD traces me into some other city: San
Francisco at twenty-one, peach and tan
stucco buildings, fainting by a chain link

fence; opening bright red eyelids to sunlight
and a giant semi that hauled sheep in Arizona,
gawking and stumbling towards the silver blinding mass

with nose holes, the snouts and sharp smell,
singling out a few, sticking my hand into
the cages to feel their sweaters and continue

down the dirt road from the Texaco. Why keep
these around?

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