j o h n  r o s

turning three… and thirty all the same time.

pressed against walls — in stroke and time
moon phases shine directly with discretion, but in mind there is no where else. cut by phase or sound — they will make sense.
tarnished and wrinkled, age shows on face and skin — newsprint
these walls sing — they remark — and though their hum is soft, it is present — defined — sought.

peak marked as soil raises and ice shelves fall.
soil comes again to play in the mix — on ground, in paper and through glass — .
white leather arms stretch — eye-hooks dangle and in all the while
music makes mark, mark makes sound and this drum beat carries on — .