the stills in

35 millimeter film don't burn anymore

it's as if the edges have been stages for too many

fleeting ballets of terracotta oranges and chili reds

they've lost their goosebumps and

well, not many sparks anymore

but back in the paradise of cinema

those stills danced with the leaps of

gunslingin' westerns and stubbled heroes

the stills filled with movement, stills

collapsing chests the first time a blush cheek is turned and the

warmth of tears were

plenty enough to ignite the roll