These titillation seconds
half broken
over the arm of the chair
and we flight security
risk, run
discombobulated overhead
compartmentalized mentality
all fortune
a chance mistaken
progress of things unrealized
a fault
of linear time and thinking
these masks wear off like
any other
jewelry, or face, leaping
from town to town as if
sideswiped
with rush, with altogether
too much pavement
too little
the sound of scream and
silence, simultaneously
barren
filling the empty words
with half token paraphernalia
saturn returns
with rings on the side, peeling
clothes as pastime, as ritual
or frequency
to date there has been no
smacking of the lips on
plate, on
eyelids—can you hear
me, that’s the sound
of not sound
of calling the phone just
to hear the voice of
the speaker
and perhaps breath
coming down the line.
I’m mistaken.
I want only your eyes.
Joshua Keiter 