Andrew Spiess

Remote Control

An ellipsis and I hear the clock tick like whiplash.
Eyes wander towards the edges
of the yellow pages, I pay attention
to the ringtone of neon augmentation:
concrete fingers reaching up to
the wild sky growling over
a dense metropolis. A heavy gauntlet
cups the limitless muzzle.

Stirred into the platinum mass
I spend my curiosity pacing
Through revolving doors made of intangible glass,
scuffed boots smudging the smooth floor.
People shift in endless cycles like moths
beating against each other by the streetlamps,
like black and gray flecks on the television.

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