“Space is only noise if you can see”  –Nicolas Jaar

a lake is strung through

with braided wire

fence posts trail placidly

like dead fingers

participating in their own wake

seventeen-year cicadas

stir in the thorn

a wet season’s parasite load

and the pack beast stops eating

exposed wires in a root ball

hang from the ceiling

amputated ombre tulips

standing like wrists in water

afraid to speak in the house

that it might answer back

the house stayed lit all night

and the sleeper too

convinced that a stray voice

has just said its name

its thin bone sticks in the ear

every Orpheum in the heartland

starts playing the same movie 

a chorus of blueshifted Dorothys

go all technicolor at once