Eclipse (Werkmeister Harmonies)

BURIED

Justin Runge

The pocketed thing
that gives off glow.
A cell phone's blue
like the hue of light
one walks towards.

Facts ignored daily
become headaches:
a human wingspan,
cubic feet, exiting,
or that once awake,
one rises, just rises.

Seams are ignored.

The ceiling should
not be blanket-near.
Sand should not be.

The sun is omitted
and it becomes fact.

A voice, one's own,
a woman's phoned,
thickens a darkness.

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