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You expect me to tell you about the interior of the room

in which I'm typing this, and connect it to my feelings,

but I'd rather tell you about the interior of your room

and use that as a symbol for something more abstract.

Actually, here's a better idea. Let's put our heads together

and try to think up a third room unknown to either of us,

then divide or multiply its number of windows by the least

number of words necessary to vividly describe it.

In this way perhaps we can accurately triangulate

brief but nearly photographic images of each other's

mothers when they were first married, in veils,

and of their driving down the street with tin-can tails,

of their first orgasmic separation, their little giggles,

and of their medication when it came time to prescribe it.

You expect me to tell you about the spite in my loin

which is the sad hail of commas in the professor's paragraph,

but I cannot even begin to do it, for I am a ranch boy

and not even a very good one; I live in El Bandito, Texas.

I am a old man in Maine, I manage a dime store,

and you, you are a movie director, but only in your mind.