Frames of you resemble the lead in a way
that is not flimsy. The thinness of you slips under glass.
You were that saved forest I zip-lined over
I have to see you in bowed spectrum
This is not on-location for me
You are in that talent de facto
You have no lines
I touch senses in the space you’ve occupied
My intermission does not pause you
It cuddles your face
on the wall, my breathing halts.
I shiver, shiver still, for the next scene.
How can distance have edges to fall over
or projector light that can burn
to a stop
or placidity that tapers sleep?
Ted Bernal Guevara has penned two books of poetry called FILMS and BIRDS ON ELEPHANT, published by Anaphora Literary Press in 2015. He resides in Speedway, Indiana.