CURTAIN’S CALL
Quirk of contortion, a portion
of what's recalled and what fits,
what we bind into bits.
Arms extending, bones a’bending,
amortized ends
of wasted beginnings.
We don’t belong here, bodies wrong here,
xanthic shapes
all sound birdsong here.
Hungry undertakers wait for mishaps,
ate what perhaps was never meant
for this nor that.
We glow, we spin; we flow, we sin;
we are, we won’t;
we scar, we don’t.
Encyclicals of all amiss,
why feign lost stars
when sunsets kiss?
Acrobats all, through fires we fall—
drowning in rivers
at curtain’s call.
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