Motion Parallax Poem by Tanec Rayl

such work this worriment such a
painful plow pulling up the covers
still covering this dour knot of lead
begetting inevitable husbandry
of dorsal curtain

caught looking north
coincidence, The End Of It All, a faded xerox
my story fallen to a poor storyteller
in the hinterland, our exhumed primary
some reluctant nebula, a hundred thousand years in dying
awaiting a general theory of Consonance

the letters tickling like midnight ants

I am charged and beaten, charges laid
days no longer lidless chambers
seas to sail; easy dreaming