Videodrome

*revisited*

Videødrøme

 

It occupies the cutout holes

Of her Venezuela mask;

It’s the endless tumble

 

It is the dark sprawled

Out like a tired man;

It’s sitting in my kitchen

 

It picks at scraps, it crosses

Continets in seconds;

It’s the tinniest thing

 

And in the end,

 

It is awareness’s sick day,

The last word said at supper,

The lines of dusk over Toronto.