You have come to be closeted in the wind & so
I ask you to take my hand, touch
The gravel traces that run
Thru the weeds on the sidereal clip.
They dangle from the projector,
The projectionist too tired
For the catapult,
Too tired,
For the sad tales we cough up
Into his arms.
Ah, you have touched my heart
With your weary composure.
I will ask you no more to run
Across my screen.
We are popcorn bodies
In an empty theatre.