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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