by Rachel Glass

On the assertive screen, the reel and film burned,
the insane stain bloomed on the linen,
the singed and offensive odour of melted plastic,
papers welcoming the acid rain,
the iciness of an uncovered bulb,
to the impotence of eyes.
The insane stain carries on burning sheets and judgements.
“They executed it,” they say.
The lonely belt still turns and turns,
click, clack,
robotically indifferent,