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Kathryn Rantala
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I watched the second half of a movie Wednesday. In my office the next day I started to
worry about my desk. The disorder. The pens. So many of them. Pointing. I got a
balloon in my head thinking about them.

Last night I watched the other half. The beginning. It started me thinking. About
chairs. How they keep their backs to the walls. And pictures: how long they can hold
onto a nail.

Quicksilver. Suds. Hubcaps.

Other things. Sheetrock. And frogs: their clown-bulb toes. And calendars: some left to
right, some straight down; some in rectangles. How do we know how to go?

My skin rises when I think about Canada: vertical maps; sliding fish. The sags in wires
and horses.

The Age and Hour Division of Labor: if they changed something. I’m going too fast for

And me. The distance to my feet. My raccoon face. Primate hands. How I can work
together. Force clothes on myself in the wind. The small bellows of me. Maybe my
eyes are the marbles in bowls. Or the bowl. If I drop and cover….

And the movie. Where does the dust go in rear projection. Into itself? Again?
Somebody’s always saying that. Somebody should write it down.

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