Take silence by the throat and it speaks.
A crowd packs into a theatre's entrance.
Intertitles bring to lips words that speak in image.
The plasticity of letters holds a resonance alien to the spoken word.
They are consoled with never-before-felt sensations.
Their predecessors had gasped at trains that, they believed,
would tear the screen apart.
Within a dreamscape of acrossness without ups an ocean is
the sum of its peaks, and a moon is dragged from its mineral bed.
Time — the metronymic — is entertainment: it can be slowed
to a stop, sped to frenzy.
Disavowals of nature are composition.