Noise Reduction Machine

By Dorothy Tse

Tear the skull open from the chin.
From the inflamed throat
rises and blooms

the reared,
beautiful waterlily

that emerges from the water
and sweetly chants:
“I love you.”
“I love you.”

Only a petrified ripple
contains the terror in the dream.

Stand back from the train doors.
The skull in the reflection is about to close.

To meet again in the mobile billboard
the shape of one’s mouth.
A cast of infinite speakers
screaming, wide open at an arc
perfect for

the iron train to enter, again and again.
A cluster of collectively reared throats.

“I love you.”
“I love you.”

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