It all happens in here (pointing)
broken silvergreen sentences
sustained by the lyric instability
of wet stones blinking in the foam
imprinted
with scripture of some sort
graffiti
that predates any known language
or
wireless reception
The meaning of time like a stolen wristwatch
& everything else the fortune teller
forgot to say who whispers in a cardiovascular
language
the kind of thing you hear only when you’re not
listening
any other voice responding
spoken, unspoken hell,
I don’t know…
I guess it’s just another way of not being seen
There’s something there that will never change
precariously altered by the telling
