In The Right Place
I see still limbs inside photographs.
Faces concrete in gesture.
Though at one point animated,
“Not for use.”
What if air
Tilted? Reflected gloss
Like a shiny photograph.
Would be a common expression of failure.
A gesture of love.
Humans with smooth skin
Would be the byproducts of care.
A measurable experience,
In the length of their wrinkles.
Nothing more than a heavy sigh.
Bathed in the blushing glow
Of an exit sign.
Pretending to be a stab wound.
Acknowledged as reality.
Our fingers flicking through shimmers.
Like angels using their halos as a Frisbee.
I am a brave sadist.
High on ticking clocks.
In the air,
I am proud of the arthritis
I developed from movement.
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