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in memory of Gene Van Troyer
today his internal suburbia is fetched with black rain
and wild hanging gardens frosted by albino crows
today her voice seems to calve to hundreds
its order carrying an arbitrary valence
today they cling to romantic artifice
their destiny as surgeons of the what-was
tomorrow they will map shattered portraits
and listen for the thoughts of their lost
mirror-images, scheduled to announce
their own identities in place of the real
meanwhile, a periphery of giant funnels
is moaning jazzoid into the night sky
there are streets that wind cycloid into
dead suns, scattered word-like upon light's whiteness
today there are windows that return the stares
of all witnesses to the crimes of the crystallizing eye