Our rhythms of speech are stunted,
like drunk acrobats hurtling through the balmy circus air
Without visual cues we fumble, like an awkward teenager,
groping for some imagined lust, some form of adult.
The telephone is an unlikely medium for us to explore
the depths of our cohesive enterprise,
the cadences of timed and timely thought,
the cycles of palpitating art, artifice.
The worship at this jaggedy outcrop altar of friendship.
The completion of self, these restless
spastic, violent ventures into New Cities,
New Worlds are the First and Second Act,
the electricity in the tuning of the orchestra pit,
the green screen of the film preview.
This life is a precursor to being engulfed by
that invisible inviting sublime sea we broached
whimsically, methodically over those eight years.
