pages
turning
turning
turning
every minute every second
inside bookstore warehouses
spectacles look for just
the right
word

whole notes
half notes
demisemiquaver notes
the conductor
tilts down dreaming to the sleepsong the orchestra plays and
it is his own hymn

narrow ankles
brittle ankles
solid ankles
her hair curls in double helixes that
lift fast like a poodle skirt
as she ice-skates within the blank black seats
smiling with pastel lips that
breathe in cold and
breathe out hot she
enjoys her own short flights

the spaces between the music notes form a question mark

pages
turning
turning
turning

but the answer is that there is no answer,
not for this one,
not for this time.
this is the wave of the future.


i wrote this in my writing class as a response to a song the teacher played, which was "god moving over the face of the waters" by moby. also: a demisemiquaver note is brit-speak for a 32nd note in music.

critiques appreciated!