As if eroticisms inked on the nape of your neck
whispering Etch A Sketch costumes
with footnotes infusing your DNA
then lapses . . . in storyboarding
new ways in your days . . .
The music earworms a fondness for rhymes
with your fantasies furthering pandemonium . . .
Paradise Lost . . . indeed! . . .
as you review decisions made in your other life . . .
Another one . . . without, but that would be weak, yes? . . .
Now impasto on canvas . . . retaining hesitation
but for what? . . . the clock continuing . . .
this unnecessary cupping of hands
awaiting a sign . . . on this snowy night
traveling through the secret air
down the steep, down the stops, down the deepenings
until asleep . . . dreaming . . . mirrors, faces, all . . .
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| Kelly Boesch |