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| photo by Ric Wright © |
the music hall was an auction house
for closing acts
we
went there to buy
what could still
surprise us
but
instead we fed
a
lingering desire
to
sell ourselves
to
be each other’s
baby
for awhile
we
rode strings and pages
sectioned
to uniformity
and
rhythm
we
were sweeping things
we
did not take a shine to
back
into shadowy rests
and
finishing schools
we
knew to teach
our
eyes to sing
to
have their reach taste
of
blood ripe jams
to
wax in
times
when
our
souls rolled,
roiled
and simmered
between
seeds, fields
and
those seasons of things
we
defined palatable with
and
it was
opening
night when
we
began breaking
the
seals
one
by one
we
bid
to
possess
all
the ghosts
these
memories
would
leave
behind
EJR ©
