by Shaun Lawton
for Sigmar Fricke
while the murmur and susurration of insects
gets sucked into endless loops of bubbling bogs
in silence like a deadly snapping flower
a mechanical garrote or a poisonous love me not
in an instant drop dead memetics sunk under
surfaces plumbed the depths so long ago some have
floated back belly up pale enough to blind the moon
if digression is the art of the game we're one step ahead
already having slid along on a synthetic lubricant
channeled backwards in time through a loop of constant
refractory loosening that is to say tightened into focus
on the other side which - and here's the trick - exists
along with us indistinguishable from what we know
already to be drowned in the static of cellophane wrap
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