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Cut the motion picture at mid-reel

so that I can swallow the void.

I am hearing sounds coming out

of the angry cat's mouth that I have

never heard before.

A smile simply "seemed."

Suppose we

bind ourselves together

preening the wind into our tiny wings.

I think of you like a song

that is continually upon my lips.

This is not a poem about a film,

this is a film about a poem

promoting its production in textual-form.

You, the sweet satyrian,

vineflowers of my day.

The soundtrack begins like a grunt--

the way one may grimace at a pawn shop:

one's gold-value sopped

by the oppression

of an inflated economy.

Our song is ambient, dear. I move

into a reflection, filling the holes

of every salty stupor.

She's staring holes through me,

sterling pearls hidden in the throat

of the clamped oyster shell--

"Music's only secret is silence"

& the ocean's silence is Music,

or a woman wearing stilettos;

the echoes filling every hallway.

I am illuminatingly observant

when it comes to my surroundings,

like not stepping into puddles

when they reflect a sky

but stepping into them

when they reflect the face

of a person: a splash, an uproar,

sassy ripples ripening one's composition.