in my poems, sonada's
film depiction
your encouraged to lose
focus
tumble
race, give up and quit
especially quit
and the frame settles with you
about where it should be
in your life
did you buy into us
the hidden mystery
robbing you blind
in time, you may hear us
the tempos that won't shutter
we are open and the theater
wells and theater's portend to you
from before, we get to know eachother's painting in time

My jet-lagged self sleeps early,
wakes early, sleeps again, reads.
Having watched one movie too many over summer
I relish the sounds designed above- a click
of a door handle, bare warm socks gliding
across wooden floor, the scrunch of toothbrush
against the rusting metal straightening yellowing teeth,
the few lone cars across the street, that hazy
early sound that only light can make as it
becomes aware of itself in my dorm room. What
kind of camera lens would make this moment more
livable and is it already dead?