Jukebox Cinema


A nifty sliver
As a cocoon.

Swift as a stalled
Decades in the making.

Folding and folding
Uncreaseable wings.


In these wrists
Ephemeral soles,
Witches on broomsticks,
And the plumbing I stole
From the drowning poet.


Numbers, undoffed 
Of cardinality, 
Yet stand attention,
This is the road, ever forsaken
Of sequence, forsaken and bright
As the endless dark that never


Before the stars could speak.

The shadows of lost diameters
Measureless now
Like childhood moons.

And what space they dreamed,
Commanded, played,
In the ageless circumference,

Amongst the sleepless paradoxes.


These are my last words. I want to end the sounds of words. 

Just for today.

And walk 
With the tattoos of evolution.

12 thoughts on “Jukebox Cinema

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