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     Sebastian Schloessingk




       OVER AND OVER AGAIN


Entering sensorily the bedroom in the dark
where she lies long since asleep, I meet, as
anticipated or not, with or without wince,
the near side of the bed with my knee, one flank
of the great dark level imminent square, and set
myself rotating probingly round the left-hand
90 corner. Roll onward, by dint of wispy
girths laid end to end, all the way to my allotted
step-in, like tumbleweed goaded by the wide
mid-west wind of an American indie film
through a small exposed town low on people in the night.