franchise
dreaming escapism
be
it baseball
or
some other
ritual
tribal
identifying
factor
we
use to sharpen
our
spears
we
are always
in
mirrored halls
in
ghostly gathered
rooted
frenzies
taking
hold
of
blood thirst,
shadows
and
revelry
a
veil thin wind
wears
you
its
sweet linger
is
the certain
smell
of death
in
late October
it
is everywhere
edging
closer
to
something burned
imperceptibly
slow
so
as not to let
anyone
notice
the
parade of ash
to our brittle
sashes
sewn
into
the tides
into our bones
our rattle
harmonies
we throat
blade
against
each moan
of our individuation
you lift and lean in
kissing
a portal sweep
of
time and calendars
grinding
coal to what
the
smallest of diamonds
mean
to electricity
its
wiring
its
connectivity
its counting
each
clock
as
an out
as
a run
as
a game
to be
won or lost
by rhyme
in a circuit
in a switch
in a series
completed
with one side
running out
of time
EJR
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