leaving out the room to spill the incline voice
while occupying each other's move
as someone who abuses where to interrupt the music
the synchronized night curve swings as nostalgia
half swollen but even with the rain
as a specimen of listening to lightning and then
mocking where it empties,
preparing the sound of the corrupted chorus half
to break whoever sleeps beside the chief identifiying cut
from believing in the damage of abandoning the effort
to soar by accident:
the gathering spot quotes the inside of its pedestal
as an inexact insurgency voiding the obvious mutual ocean
where dreams moved as unassisted flashing ships
complete amid the safest centered loyalty
to the glance that kept the secret joy concealed
as the signature of holding the surge without losing time
thinking how the window shakes from the opposite side:
continuing to chain the weakest ceremonial machine
to hearing the sharp tap inside the nerve cave
measuring the last zig-zag as an atom of certainty
before the crashed voice owns no more than the residue
of its shape as a temporary side hole
in the mythically huge peculiar fatal noise losing the warmness
of completing rotation of the sailing ear
to invent narrating its danger loose enough from the instrument
to resist the backlash of glory layers
lighted by enlarging what the dance pause forgets

Jim Rosenberg's home page o Poetries o Linear Works o The Winding Interval