a hired skip tracer fingered a lonely page
  in his old address book
    and plotted disposable conversations.
      he took the razor over his past
        and came back complete.

beforehand the temperature sunk to zip zero
  and stayed that way for decades
   intricately whistling ripped notes of crystal ice.

every morning a swayback nag with elk’s teeth
  turned the tables on the night

[on the radio a little boy hung himself on a string last week
  in a little shack on the plantation]

a female pachuco type remembered the mink coat
  she lost in a flash flood
    and stared at the agent extra hard, distraught.

private eyes blinked
  slowly taking in small
    dreams of somewhere…





Julian Isaacs
Picture Nick Victor

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