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