Outside the gallerythe squirrels cleantheir faces with theirprecise hands.I feel each toothdistinctly in my mouth,hope the pipeswill burst themselvesjust so somethingwill have happenedwhile I sat here. TomorrowI’ll read an articleand discover thingsthat seem pertinentbut aren’t—bright spotson a dwarf planet,mice who don’trespond to positivereinforcement,a rat who keepshitting a buttonno matter how high upthe pain is tuned.The moon is lidlessand wilted in the sky.The nice forks are forgotten,nestled in the backof a drawer somewhere.Outside the galleryI watch a girlask her motherfor change for the payphone.She’ll say helloto the chipper buzzof static on the otherside. I would liketo bring you forth nowplease, I would likethe corridors in the centerof myself to switch ontheir low-lightsso I can placemy feet more carefully.I’m here in personto find the imperfectplaces where the artist’shand quivered. To seethe non-facsimileversion of paintingsI still can’t touch.The girl is pacingback and forthin my mind insideher payphone booth.Her penniesare like fancy moths.The streetlight peeks inbut from an oddangle, and so she hasto turn backwards,forwards, to locatethe source of the light.