Lindsay Bell


Siren of the sound stage, Circe, or some such Ulysses
magnet, I am cleaver of spouses, arbiter of islands.
You call yoo-hoo between takes, all for the hard steel
grain of the picture, my wooden bosom.  Pan a pun for stealing
off to the 2-D forest.  Everything's furtive here, horizontal
and flat.  The shadows so tinted as to suggest a twin life,
a running backdrop, a loop rigged up to bicycle.  I can feel
my skin seethe beneath the cake makeup, the white line
across my neck.  This is where it happens, wherewith
we spin all the angles; the encounter.  You could interpret
the starlet as such, but she's only the sizzle of water
evaporating in a frying pan.  Kiss me beneath the generic
tree - same one, third time past.  This is the only chase
made standing still.


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