You hop into bed with happenstance . . .
scenes of endearment in black and white
on a doilied Stromberg-Carlson
in a room reminiscent of Miss Havisham's
crammed with memories of home-schoolers . . .
The boulevards distract with light reading . . .
odysseyites await first dibs
their landing craft reassembled
with the same worn colored pencils
from a gallerist's backroom . . .
Renderings . . . mounted in amber
slip past the watchers at the gate
satisfy the elements of someone's style . . .
You google factorials
applying exclamation points
to escape to the garden . . .
head filled with Mahler's doom-laden Ninth
its twenty-seven bars for strings . . .
transcendent . . . a prototypical specter
redacts your clang associations . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |