Volta

Cold, hungry, alone
whispering and screaming would-be words
fighting, dancing, drawing, fucking
killing well, before murders invention
we were darkness

This is not our first turn
we’ve had our pile stacked before
alternating elements drowning in saltwater;
foaming ourselves dry with unharnessed energy
we are toxic, powdery bedrock

From still to trembling, lost to swaggering
our empty lungs fill brass cones with color
our blurred minds send tired bodies diving
dropping Terpsichore’s lyre as her arms are cleaved off
and the juddering world has never sounded better

Our caves are lit, but we are still silhouettes
swaying in front of our stories with hands on collars
trailers for an everlasting film
cut from a cache of unlabeled movements
knit vainglory in ribbons with slow fades