At the funeral of his birth the seamstresses sing matte muted adagio
of rouge and torn hems. Oleaginous in both mane and vow. Bronze

king of ennui. She drifts across oxidized hallways, her dress the slug
line. Blue filtered lights and non-filtered cigarettes imbibe them.

                 CUT TO:                          Closing credits. Exit. Pressed
                                                            suit, nail file play
                                                            sentinel for preening enigma.

One mistakes soliloquy for an affair. The other lives as an atoll, divot
headed and bleak lacquered. Boast throated, he follows her like

a tracking shot that took the crew three weeks to stage. With days
drenched in despondent night, they mutiny through stasis, resist

                 CUT TO:                          Again, that infernal clock.
                                                            Train car hemorrhaging, roof
                                                            top scaled. An ellipsis.

the throttling of the hours toward shopping carts glutted with ailment.
These railways run parallel but incongruent; one stretches toward

longing, the other hunts for omission. They sleep in the wind of radio
static. She sways for the unthreaded fish hook. He is a desert. His gaze

                 CUT TO:                          Suitcase, flower print dress.
                                                            Unrequited knock at brass
                                                            gates. Clock, grief stricken.

dutch tilted and vacant in accord with the inebriated street. The coke
bottles, the bedroom slippers under vanity in soft focus, all browbeaten

and stalked by the blunted edge of minutes like a dipsomaniacal
gumshoe. Triangulated cravings asphyxiate them. Each tantalizes

                 CUT TO:                          Pearl earring gifted to
                                                            the second thief once
                                                            reclaimed from the first.

the other through taciturn tides of withholding. Hell bent on boring
the sea. But this mise-en-scene does not belong to them. This

is the viewer’s malebolge, a whorl of truancy spliced from B-Rolls
of rambunctious prodigals who refuse to catch what they chase.

                 CUT TO:                          Clock. Stairwell in need
                                                            of serenading. Threat posing
                                                            as flirtation. Opening credits.

          (Fade in)

Vincent Toro is the author of Stereo.Island.Mosaic., which was awarded the 2015 Sawtooth Poetry Prize. He is also recipient of both a Poet’s House Emerging Poets Fellowship and a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship in Poetry, and winner of the 2014 Metlife Nuestras Voces Playwriting Award. Vincent has an MFA in poetry from Rutgers University, and is a contributing editor for Kweli Literary Journal. Vincent’s poems have been published in The Buenos Aires Review, Codex, The Acentos Review, The Caribbean Writer, Rattle, The Cortland Review, Vinyl, Saul Williams’ CHORUS, and Best American Experimental Writing 2015.