Note: this is an attempt to fall under cubist poetry.
Section: Abstract Rooms
Moving past seems room inside for color sounding once more prior. A room, quite a
room, won’t be one for much longer. If clock hand stopped, the purpose to counting
soon roams; no longer is expansive longer than magnitude. Perhaps it expends no
more violet. Violet, violet does make noise. Listen now or again away some other
place: surely bone will be brought to rest when motion ending devoted false
conception hopes an end.
James M. Maynard