Traces of constellations written in freckles on your back
A laugh like Judaism and a touch like loneliness
Can only explain it in pictures of black and white images
like a chemical combustion in frail snapshots
tethered hands all weathered and rough
Misspoken masterpieces communicated through touch
So hard to contain this sensation
I can't explain through anything tangible
A cloud that changes shape upon inspection
Spectacles, our honors
gleaming like a trophy that's hidden in a box
left alone to rust
Miscellaneous hands grasped to chasms
moving so quick and fast
There's no lines attached to those burdens or
bodies crisp gloves cover up
Stretched or crunched
hovering like a light
above storms in the town square
Overblown posters with checkers
faded colors in Spring
advertising bands
that I won't listen too, fabric I'll never feel
noises I'll never have to speak over
or turn down on radios
Artichoke hearts stabbed by the fork
held by an animator choking on the root
This is the inheritance of sound
of presences on stages or garages
These oiled gemstones
blurred behind faceless statuesque
pieces of cold stone