It was a kind of softness—
the thick tongue I curled around
sunshine, unexpectedly distressed.
The machinery in me
slipped, an electric sizzle,
delirious. I listened to the radio,
breathing. At heart
it was possible—to travel forward
out there creating a door into the lights,
the space extending careful
along the stairway, body bent
frantic. I’m hollow
at the moment, backed
into the outside, claws on metal.
This is an erasure poem. Source Material: Crichton, Michael. Jurassic Park. Mass Market ed. Ballantine, 2015. 331-345. Print.