Layers

Layers and layers
we are,
conceptualizing each moment,
feeling each spark
as our hands, eyes, and voices

meet.

Layers underneath
is something hidden deep
like frantically scribbling
a poem beneath
the notes from a class
all about literature
from all around.
It’s amazing, now? Isn’t it.

Layers buzz dim, they strike
out at whim. Tree rings
are like our dreams.
Circles contract
again, they pull slack.
Layers between bright
fields of glam. Beyond
the Modernist thinking
I go. Post-Modern
eclectic sultry
salves it so. Projects
to be made. Speeches
I gave. Layers beneath layers until
digging my grave.