Older, I should be that
subtle creature, the animal squeezing
heart from mouth.
I’m a sequence of years
trying to solve a room
through a glass window. We wait,
duplicate a paradox,
verify an awkward pause. I want to
open skeletons, to come warm-blooded
into a faint decay,
the afternoon enough
to run down menace. Modern,
I lay on the coffee table, smiling.
That’s what you gave me.
This is an erasure poem. Source Material: Crichton, Michael. Jurassic Park. Mass Market ed. Ballantine, 2015. 121-135. Print.