Mood

Interior weather moving through,
a color not seen,
muting.

Always framed for something,
set up to take the fall,
it awakens as transcription,
as the blue diamond on
someone else's forehead,
as advantage taken
of the immobile, immutable.

It burns down in its holder,
smoke then smell then
just soft grey sift.

Only in sleep is it read back.
Somewhere the slight motions of
an otherwise still stenographer
capture and release,
ready to repeat as needed
repeat as needed.

Out of what it comes
is not clear
but what is noticed
is you are
its conformity.