Pill bottle placed before Biblical notations,
Cover agape, straddled the shelf for squints
To fish-eye, pilfer and register artifacts of verse, which
Insisted the tambourine player remove her instrument,
“assemble the tempo
To approaching danger.” Door lock clicked,
Pantomime leaned against the frame and lathered his deadbolt
In oil. He became fixated on the motion of returning
To keep oneself in,
Wiped the excess oil away,
Stared at the function
Of knowing what to do
And when it would end.
Constellations recognized in nomenclature to historical omnipotence, failed to distinguish the shimmer casted off their bones and the tambourine bleating in council, to tides adhering the moon’s directions, reflecting glowing craters along the musical shadow gaps.
Pantomime placed a noise at his fingertips, thrummed pitch changes in rhythm to retinas, convinced they were fixated on reality’s picture. A flinch
In balance shifted the weight of focus,
Adhered it to traffic rolling over roadkill.
“Wait a minute…” Pantomime said. “That’s where the rattlesnake went.”