Thursday, September 05, 2013

V. 2, #160: September 5, 2013

Like something disconnected--rusted wires
now frames for cobweb tapestries, their lace-
thin shadows fall where centipedes displace
forgotten bits of newsprint. Outside, choirs

of insects line up, thrum, and resonate
like motors, while the blank, noctlucent clouds
await some lost projection. Meanwhile, crowds
of frogs and field mice find their seats, and wait.

But up above, behind locked doors, the cold
stiff body of the lone projectionist
sits silent, dead, and long since gone to rot.
Spooled off the reel, a story never told
will dry to crinoline around his wrist,
and soon--by all save one--will be forgot.

No comments: