by Raphael Moser
You can see birch trees
Thriving on the second floor
Which keep the red rails holding
The weight of the creaking bones
Gold badges on bone white broadsides
Float up to the second floor
A woman sits up in bed
Shaking her once red head
Processing her purloined black locks
Staging silver remnants
Visualize a dotted line
Splinters of gold and silver
One after the other
Create a paradox
Between four floors
A pair of heavy metal doors
Form a cube on the ground floor
An echolalic chamber
Pitting the pinging of nerves
Whether or not
An eclipse of water hung the air
Arachnid angles teetering
Past the saxophone’s declaration in the park
Separate and apart
Bent, bloodless legs seizing
Motoring on
In a cool room preserved by metal carts
Fracturing, filaments cauterized
Harnessed as light
Intermittent, now flickering
Each post and lintel beckoning
A woman secures a venue
Where vortices of rhythm criss-cross
Cymbals
