Poem · BLX·P·003
The board flips its soft consonantsand nothing is delayed except me. I have packed the usual evidence:a coat that argues with the season,a book I will not open,the address of a room that is no longer warm. Trains take the dark like a vow.I count the cars the way a childcounts to stay awake — not to arriveanywhere, only to be counted with. When mine comes it will be ordinary.
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Lyric · BLX·L·002
Hold the line a little longer,I'm still here under the noise —every tower going colder,every word a falling voice. If the signal fades, find mewhere the last bar used to be.Count the silence back to zero,I'll be louder than the sea. Static in the morning,static in the rain,I keep your name on airplane modeand play it back again.
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Poem · BLX·P·001
There is an hour the house keeps for itself,when the radiators tick like a projectorwarming, and the window becomesa screen no one asked to watch. I sit inside the blue of it.The street rehearses its small arrivals —a key, a dog, a sentence lefthalf-spoken in the cold. Nothing happens, which is the plot.The kettle reaches its one clean noteand lets it go. Somewhere a dooragrees with another door.
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