The composition ruptures, spills—causes teetering.
Not everyone will cooperate with effect.
Talk wanted to talk.
The subject of the story will say no—held hostage in an explanation.
There was no translation when it was sung.
The vaulted ceilings amplified a dirge for mortality, a lament for not coming back.
The chorus stayed very quiet, balanced on pins—mesmerizing vertically.
Lilacs became wind.
Our watches are broken, and mourning
doves need more time on gray roofs.
The garden was betrayed for sorrow.
It can own you sometimes.
Despair has a resume a mile long.
The brain couldn’t be brought to obey.
Morning glories, striped violet and white, climbing the privacy wall
have closed without daylight.
The moonflowers preen white trumpet blooms, hallucinogenic.
Night smells like heliotrope.
The perpendicular houses were almost sleeping.
Apertures shut over aluminum ledges.
Voyeurism isn’t always creepy. She said
I wanted to see how someone else lives.
The middle-aged man counts his money in the freezer.
Ballet dancers don’t have one leg longer.
Spines lack perfect symmetry, vertebrae;
one’s backbone in ugly situations.
That was before the ethical fallout—before the police arrived.
Maybe the prescribed pills were too many.
We’re trying to determine if we need
cranial magnets or touch.
Someone loved before less mattered.
Facts often act factually.
Notes needed footnotes to understand this many layers of longing—
but that might be a tomorrow thing.
Every fingerprint, eye, voice—a signature
from the beginning of time, the boy said to impress
the beaming girl twirling a trampoline.
That was when he had two arms, but no one explains.
Some of us liked each other.
Some of us pretended because it was easier.
Some of us wept behind picnic benches.
Lion masks jettisoned for sewer grates
after non-genetically engineered hors d’oeuvres.
Personas multiplied or eroding.
Small children know mostly none of this.
No one calls now that I’ve given up color.
No one talks about how we’ve misplaced the TV.
No one should panic.
We lost the oars.
Eternity might be a passageway of calcium.
This time wear black.
This time don’t say you’re sorry.
By the time you read this,
everything has become more estranged.
Music fills the strange room.
It’s not all that much.
Some days end before they begin.
We’re voting if this act is over.
The chorus is weighing in.