Conversation

Horizon

bound by

road signs

& wires.

Low tide:

wide swaths

of mud

rub in.

Words, we

have none.

We're lost

in the tone

splayed

between

shadows

bending

with the

wind's pitch.

Listening to Joseph Ceravolo's Home Recordings

In the room

of a memory

of a room.

Static

brackets each

syllable.

Afternoon

effaces the floor

while the

pills take

effect.

All I will

amount to:

the hours

these walls

enclose

as song.