Kelly Holt

from Study for The Other

We can all be caught looking for a room without a trace. A weeping lobby hasn’t the heart to tell you the walls have no eyes, the line’s a night long, the only window revolves in doors. A half-forth spectator counts the hours of color, mid-center. Granted, he pieces the likes of one other unnumbered, taut plane: the entire story spans across a wall, to each edge. To remind us once again of the faded motivation under a bleached humming, a tilted sphere. There’s no turning back from the place started. A sidereal shot in the dark amounts to as much greyscale as the next silhouette. Watch. A move in the sky in your move.


Kinesthetic, the whole Ghost, a poem’s populace. If footsteps should sound like the dust in light’s way, say you’d never watched a spectre seep into such a sinister notion of proximity. The fixed stare on the screen is nothing like us, really, who taste the unfold, know its tone has been lost in the latter half of relocation. Its anniversary is synonymous with the claim to be; had. The lash of an advancing contour through a seamlessly relevant mesh grabs hold of us all. Feign the final understanding, brocade through the finger’s tips. Fade to struggle) to see.