This is my frame

This is my frame.
Four tines scraping, guns left silent
Debris flapping just within the corners
/Before absolution/
And I wonder how long I can inhabit this little slice of space time
You’ve seemingly handed me
A doggy bag of desperation
Not from my menu.
I’m sure you were referring to it
As hope.
This is my frame/
/And presentism never seems right on its own/And I try to change it/And I try to stay in the present moment/But there’s this thing called life chasing me/ And I want it back, hell, I want it back/
And so
I come to this shot again.
Mind fed on moving pictures ten times removed/An aria of crystal pixellations/sound repeating like a loop pedal that/ /Sometimes I even forget
Why I’m here.
Can you tell me?
This is my frame.

This is my frame

Handcrafted
Space to return to
A fizzy reel in
Crime scenes, dreams seem
To put into perspective.
Bringing parity to the party,
Streamers of sound and bites from conversations past
This is my frame.
Will you ever return to it?
I hear the gun
Bullets singing like bees
And I think about you, even though your mouth holds a scream that caresses mine in a loved embrace
/And I feel it from the corner of my eye/
You’re still there, and you’re still here.
A flash of red flannel, all thumbs and fingers, where the light spatters in
A warm rain that I bask in.
After all,
This is my frame.