Monday, October 04, 2010


The room has shifted
out of focus,

and below my slanted
ceiling thrives the
pixellated surrogate
of sight.

In the wake of
dappled lies,
I have dissolved
into thin veils of
ashen off-beats.

Memories of flight
are frosted syllables
within the grid of such
desaturated times.

They chime,
rehearsing countless,
scattered eulogies of light
across the grayscale.

Copyright ©2010 Anna Piutti