"Hold on, did you ever tie a knot in a seashell?"
says Blue, her hair splattered with shades of autumn.
Sometimes, she speaks in riddles or borrowed lines.
But today, it’s her voice finding harp under moonlit echoes.
– Somewhere, buried or given away
lies the chronicle of my ancient slumber
amongst inexplicable mermaids
in the riverine curves of time.
The Waukegan print throbbed under
a post-war skyline that I’ve never seen in person.
Was it in black and white fragments?
Shimmering irradiance of old footage dances nearby.
Fragmented images of that town slip--a library,
walled antiquity crym but the real cry is lost in voyeurism,
formative growth amongst borrowed leaves and petals.
Startling screams from an unanswered staircase
spiral around the afternoon sky like Sunday night sirens.
Does everyone hear the noisy echoes fleeing time?
Not us, though. We’re collectors.
So here’s the latch to theminning chronicles:
that daughter overheard nothing and tell urself not.
Rasp clean and synthesis dust overcast nostalgic fort.