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Salad Spinner
           after Francis Picabia


You must grab time by the hair,
couple subconscious helixes
in the space of a secret.

You must tickle the improbable
and believe in the impossibility
of crossroads.

You must learn to suspend
ten grams of white, five grams of black
in hopes of true scarlet.

You must know how to fall from below
to favor the zenith
of mornings to the manner born.

You must love the four mouths
floating around the silky doubt
of dead assumptions.