RogueAgent

Maybe there were changes—
that name lost to a blurring screen,

arrow pointing
to a trap door. Unconscious,

I found God in panic, fell
a hundred feet into

a heavy full moon. I’m sure I came
closer to beautiful

in descending, and the south
carries me all night,

a pale concrete to stretch above
the other side. I need

to take the sound of laughter back,
to remember my own jaws.

This is an erasure poem. Source Material: Crichton, Michael. Jurassic Park. Mass Market ed. Ballantine, 2015. 256-270. Print.

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