Art Bell


It holds up the air. What?

It holds up the chest and breath in what is living. Living?

Moving fast down deserted roads and gummy hot asphalt, the heat itself is unencumbered like a formless blob, an entity of fevers over the forehead.

The vehicle is motionless and the windshield is measured in light years
And points to too distant universes.

The radio conveys love, dark silence and
chilled finalities.

Like a pine cone under the moon.