Wednesday, July 14

Curtain’s Call

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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