By Tyler Mobley
Letting out line, mind a clicking reel, wonky
film projector tempting realities to
sprout from skull and politely ask the present
for a dance, only to ruin her and take her place.
Sea surface storms about how the heart wants
if skin would show it, left with throwing rocks
to ripple the calm, trusting it will return when
our minds are ready.
Marble monks on city hall contain all things and
none with how they hold themselves,
conversing behind our backs, you’d swear on
their rolling eyes, unmoved movers of sacred bust.
Falling as a precious drop onto vacant dune,
giving life to dust in a flood of visions, that
may last the next rain.