Reb Livingston

conjured in a closet; seven minutes in a delusive boon deep breaths shallow, ankles stretched, entwined ribs padded with throbs, bells and trance it never ended and then it ended the spell distant, retrospect, precious the doorways, hall- ways, the fleeting pitter patters gaze up a long flight of stairs something’s still there to behold is it sorcery or charm? invoke a comely name for it recall your palms flattening my thrum, my thrum, my good judgment groped, ravaged, delirious