robert e moore

doorways we pass through - threadbare - a shadow, a wall, a window, a clock

rubbing a corner with dust and solitude - expansion and contraction, ceilings and floors

gravity and no gravity - the weight of stillness, the hum of listening, a listening monologue

distant music swirling in this room - whirring like an appetite, then I hear a scuffling silence 

motion of matter, motion of continuity, something on the verge of, marks the motel air

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motel rooms is a new series