Newspoem 22 April 1996

The waterglass is tilting off the edge of the table.

The news is spreading its wings to slow its descent into the trash.

Your arm is outstretched above the newspaper above the wastebasket along the plane of the table you swept the news off of. The voices in your head are all inhaling simultaneously. It would never have occurred to you to read the obituaries to look for your own death and so you will never learn the bizarre cause of it. That every page following the comics is printed using only the letter Q will never occur to you. The water in the glass stretches a pseudopod up. The pattern the swirling dust motes are in resmebles a face. You can’t remember your last flashback. You wake up. You reach the end of the poem.