by Suzán Jiván
Sunday night drops us
as a lot to watch
washed up
in intermittent intervals
like diaries reprinted
then told in pictures
within a bottled city
looming largely
as more orthodox exemplars
fed up with bowing
at irregular hours
in traditional galleries
of "when", "where" and "how"
being downsized
by backdrops and backgrounds
fantastic as captions
for far-fetched distant descendants'
attempts at self-expression
gridded against accompanying texts
of the expressionless declared, "dead"
at the registry of unheard
of "howevers" from family members
labeled with small lettering...
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