Projection

by Nat Norland

The flicker of a film reel sets the screen alight
a stain flowing wildly across white linen,
the acrid and harsh smell of twisted plastic,
paper exposed to acid,
bright cold bulb revealed
to these weak impotent eyes.
The stain writhes on, deft and untouchable.
“It is done”, someone says.
Unmoved, the belt turns and turns,
click, clack,
mechanical,
click,
clack.