Cut it out, will you? This too-clever stratagem cuts no ice with me. Whereupon her lover cut across the stone field, balancing an embarrassment of melons. It gives the impression of asymmetry—a cut-and-paste view of reality. A hermit arranging bindweed in a cut-glass vase. Hence, outside their apartment, he will cut the engine, the lights, and darkly wait. Cut a hexagon from a piece of orange construction paper. Cut to the moment your records shattered like crows’ wings under her window. I cut my teeth on these simulated missions. And still she remembers the hairline cut above the eyebrow, remembers gathering her dress to sop the blood. Won’t this, too, fall to the cutting room floor? Just cut to the point already—the way her cat’s tail wraps around your neck. The saxophonist unconscious on the bathroom tile, forearms cut to shreds. Her too-tanned body cuts through my memory even now, like sunlight. Like plum blossom tea cut with arsenic. Do not use if printed seal under cap is torn, cut, or missing. Then he will cut off the sprigs with pruning knives, or whatever. Cue reed section. Cut along dotted line. Now you must go—take the shortcut without us, mijo. A little wooden bowl of cut-up self-portraits on a pillow. Still cuts my heart out of my chest.