Ross Moretti

Rift Time A crevice spilling secondsinto the endless cup,a whorl of glass so fine as the film of saliva over lipsspun in the gasp of a moment,tongue tucking back into its cave— the cool stop-flow exhale,waiting, weighting,the mass of time evaporates from the flesh,swirling in the tangled ether,sprouting from rooted breath; the clock unfolds between lovers’ teeth,blooming into a flower,…