there is no grace in act five,
only the nerves, insect leg twitch
and involuntary bowel movements and confusion.
a snail in salt doesn't fall asleep
with a half smile
like gramma from the afterschool special.
it twists and contorts, it jerks and writhes
for sometime like a living severed limb on fire.

and all the people who taught me card tricks are dying.
i've been trying to gank my pop pop's good looks from old snapshots
i've been trying to steal my grandfather's handsome from old photographs

and even if the world is saved
and the couples kiss before the credits list
there will be more than a lifetime of death
in the scrambled signal snow that's left
when the blackened tape runs out.
the invisible frames death tacks to your movie reel
far outweigh the reel itself.

and all the people who taught me card tricks are dying.
i've been trying to gank my pop pop's good looks from old snapshots
i've been trying to steal my grandfather's handsome from old photographs

there is no grace in act five.

a circus tent and all the folding chairs
fit in an old coffin for travel.