Intertitles

There was a skeletal continuity 
to the greasepaint proceedings
in the battered copy of a copy Jobyna Theater 
on dropout Vaudeville Avenue, 
the feral homeland of late-blooming flower children
and the stillbirth of muted trains.

Shadows toned with silver salts capered as
plucky shopgirl Clara Bow darkened her lips
with the memory of her mother’s madness,
a thousand butcher knives forever held
against her tongue-tied throat.