their twig fingers dance and quiver,
conducting the music of the clouds,
writing invisible words
on that page of sky, which scrolls past,
a gigantic ribbon of amorphous ticker tape
mottled with birds and mechanical birds
and other things that must eventually fall.
To be part of that grand novel one must feel
instead of read, to be more than a plot of land
for a CO2 factory, to be more than a thread
woven through the infinite bolt of silk
we call time, to be a memory that lasts
like the lingering scent of smoke.
But everything that moves,
from the comets to the blades of grass,
the wings to the winds,
we are all just tips of the same ink pen
writing the eulogy
of whatever comes next.
Jay Sizemore dropped out of college and has since sold his soul to corporate America. He still sings in the shower. Sometimes, he writes things down. His work has appeared online and in print with magazines such as Rattle, Prick of the Spindle, DASH, Menacing Hedge, and Still: The Journal. He’s never won any awards. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is available on Amazon.