|
There is no grace in Act Five, |
|
only the nerves |
|
insect leg twitch |
|
and involuntary bowel movements |
|
and confusion. |
|
A snail in salt doesn't fall asleep |
|
with a half smile |
|
like Gramma from the afterschool special. |
|
It twists and contorts, it jerks and |
|
writhes for some time like |
|
a living severed limb on fire, |
|
All the people who taught me |
|
card tricks are dying. |
|
I've been trying |
|
to gank my poppop's |
|
good looks from old snapshots |
|
And all the people who taught me |
|
card tricks are dying. |
|
I've been trying |
|
to steal my grandfather's |
|
handsome from old photographs. |
|
And even if |
|
the world is saved |
|
and the couples kiss |
|
before the credits list, |
|
There will be more |
|
than a lifetime of death |
|
in the scrambled signal snow that's left |
|
when the blackened tape runs out. |
|
The invisible frames death tacks |
|
to your movie reel |
|
far outweigh |
|
the reel itself. |
|
All the people who taught me |
|
card tricks are dying. |
|
I've been trying |
|
to gank my poppop's |
|
good looks from old snapshots. |
|
And all the people who taught me |
|
card tricks are dying. |
|
I've been trying |
|
to steal my grandfather's |
|
handsome from old photographs. |
|
There is no grace in Act Five... |
|
A circus tent |
|
and all the |
|
folding chairs |
|
fit in |
|
an old |
|
coffin for travel. |
