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Three Poems

Jeffrey Jullich

I suppose I wonder who can guess what is in there.
I almost told them there would be exactly the same kind.
Anybody who supposes nothing matters more than what they want should go there.  People have.  

I was standing and talking with her while she sat.
Suddenly very slow events took place at the same rate, only more precisely.
The only place where I can slow down is in here.
More of the same takes time.
One day, standing on line waiting to move, I began to notice that the person two spots up had realized nearly what it took to be a day ahead, and went over.
I would also like to go out with someone soon to see if what I have read about those places is true.
We could go on a ride, as I did once, and see whether it feels okay, then head home.
I don’t think I really would like to go back and do the same thing so I might back off and think things through.
When the one who was down and out made a comeback, everyone knew there would be more ahead.
I knew deep down that some of what happens is there for the taking.
So long as things turn out the way he wants them, I told him that whatever he asked would be fine provided he agreed to the possible outcome.
Almost anything would be alright with me so long as he knew ahead of time that we would have to see if it worked out.
I might decide to head over to the place we used to go to, then spend some time standing and waiting before really deciding whether to go ahead and do what I thought I would want to.
I really want to do whatever it takes.
I thought I wanted to sit before deciding.
Getting on with things was so important that he could not agree to the terms.
It may seem perfectly nice but really not be the same at all, which might make getting over on them more hard than at first appeared.
I surprised myself by remarking that I took down his number and told him that if I had a chance I would be getting back to him before he leaves, in case he cares to.
I would wait and see when the right opportunity arose and then follow up in suit.
Someone who could guess the right number without seeing what is in there must be able to do more, exciting things.
Ask him if he can leave his number.
I was wondering whether I should have been thinking about what I was.
I might not have done what I did if it had not been for him.
Compressed defects, sunken mirrored in traces, exhume
the thing from the object.  The sky closes.
These two teasing ideas, these blanched
falsehoods, converted me to a new paraphrase:
the subway moves, but the teenager ensconced in his echelon
does not move, give or take an eyelid. How does chosen
such an image if idleness and scale bring swooping
us any closer to your prompted answer?  Now
we are ready to begin.
He stands perpendicular the way evolution
invented the gilled zoomorph to gasp in the mud flats:
vertical, svelte, cognizant at last of his freedom
with a thought perched at the top.
For a duration punctuated by opening
doors and metaphysical portals, he has
stood and I have pamphlet sat, first in a fixity,
then at a desk, in an agon subdued to a quench.
Crotch convex and baffling.
So clear and porous,
I was never the author.  Too tongue-tied for trunks.
Never his receiver.
There is much to be Pierrot over.
I have one day to live
in the room where the books splits asunder.
He stands and saves it for a debacle.
Nice, uncanny guy. A smidgen too
recapped for the poker hypocrites,
but swell when it comes common loose.
Severe offers, mock manhood hookah,
inertia retina: all the telltale harpies
of an average primavera. Maverick freak
taking pointers from mandrake android.
Bottom robot, well for a cruddy ride,
re-pays yard boy with vehicle ahem
shaped like an ordinary car, only dinner.
Instantly transports him am
to shall. Prods practically him shank.