the rooms like moods.
Stars are alone; viewed
from the outside the Dyson sphere
of my dolor is
pistacchio green.
The austere chrome
faces stare into posterity.
Sometimes I forget
everyone who's dead.
Ring around the sun
pocket full of
dynamite, candy dots
on ribbons of parchment
dumb brail that trails,
sebaceous, over the cracks
that break the backs
of lovers & Romantic doubles,
a farce of lost phone
chargers & a hopscotch court
for sorrow, for
mirth, for weddings & the birth
of a thousand tomorrows. There's
a vacuum where heaven
might've been
if only the opera hadn't taken so long
to get started. A wardrobe
filled with moth holes &
bowler hats. An audience chatting
during your solo,
devouring mouthfuls of popcorn
& Cheez-its as you
solemnly remove your eyeballs
& stagger in circles,
your gore a calligraphic
signature across the boards.
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