The echo of voices long gone,

all the faces flat, colorless,

eyes blank with hollow stares,

forms steamrollered,

resigned now to exist

in one dimension on thin film.

Picture edges stained and curled

from caressing again and again.

Shards of warmth and motions,

sun and moon, steamed clams,

and popcicles on a beach

where tides no longer sing

lovers to sleep.

 Voices from the world next door 

echo in a seducing tone,

that makes you want to leave.

12/23/2003