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Act iii I hear you

Densely multitracked, the vocals

are lost in a forest of pines. Scales, the bark, the tree,

the scales fall from the arrangement of night.

I walk and breath is pace reversed.

I forget if I am breathing in or out or backwards.

A chorus. A choir. My lungs a duet made of velvet.

Chiffon the fabric of memory


The snow sets – veils my scream under auto tune

Solace in spasms. I am still and peel back the nail of you.

The sound of your palms clapping – or was it your fingers strumming.

I want your skin to match the temperature of this dying.

I choose water. I choose to be tied by the strings of my old guitar.

I choose the piano on the bed of the sea.

This winter is not so bad. The words wish to be read slow.

Silence wishes to be sung aloud.


Dragged by the undertow, the poem shrieks at first

Then is buried beneath white, then blue, then sky.

Porcelain the sclera ceramic it cracks.

No one is to blame.

I can smell wood. I drown before the air in me drowns.

The song is a ghost, rubs its fur against the pines.

In the morning the snow is white and glass and blood. The wolves sleep.

The pleats inside the chorus trail.

-You will melt my heart one day.

-And you will make for a beautiful sea.


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