The sludge of classic pop stars filters through my bones,
the snow of old sit coms,
the dot com archives of alchemy
sift like cards through library fingers
with my dreams of being a pastry chef or ball player,
the ringer of the bells at Rapa Nui.
Anything but these eyes
that take it all on
with nothing left of the inside.
They're all escaping, these illusions
that what was once within these shells
is not here now,
too precious for obtaining,
still there is no facet missing
without a form.
