The thought of Klein's patented riff on ultramarine
and the high romance of pursuit
saturate your jealousy of time despite a high wind advisory . . .
Gym rats crowd onto a blue continuum with feigned defeat
pained by the thought of your strange repetitions . . .
their ineptitude straining the windows with halftime images . . .
You were climactically rebuffed, yes? . . .
but who's to say why? . . . Certainly not page-turners
who know the morbidity of sand
slipping in and out of costume and into the role of street
only to be shunted off into a siding . . .
You, not unlike many, are mired in the phrase bald-face lies . . .
its etymology as elusive as imaginary numbers
skipping beats to the turntable's scratching . . .
An obsession with interludes will soon spell relief . . .
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| Anka Zhuravleva |