wish

Where does sound go & when does it stop?


[Note to self: research this]


 


I saw a boy with his hands


torn off – a still, on impact.


 


The next shot is a girl


opened wide; the mouth,


the eyes call -


.


 


The moment solidifies, is


livid, remains what it is


in the grave, dead but


living.


 


I fold at the crisis,


the crossroads, not up


to it, unused to.


 


 


If I’m drowned, snuffed-out


anyhow; abused, bum-


rushed off the stage,


I remain –


 


a boy that wants of course


joy, love.


http://bit.ly/2Hztak1

Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

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