wish by Mark Prisco

Where does sound go & when does it stop?

[Note to self: research this]

 

I saw a boy with his hands

torn off – a still, on impact.

 

The next shot is a girl

opened wide; the mouth,

the eyes call –

.

 

The moment solidifies, is

livid, remains what it is

in the grave, dead but

living.

 

I fold at the crisis,

the crossroads, not up

to it, unused to.

 

 

If I’m drowned, snuffed-out

anyhow; abused, bum-

rushed off the stage,

I remain –

 

a boy that wants of course

joy, love.

Originally posted on http://poetry.org.nz/percy64/wish/

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