They looked exactly the same—

the blue tension,

the hall, the floor,

almost magically wrapped in lush.

 

Thrones seated sarcasm,

too fast,       legs trembling.

 

Punch-drunk intuition

somehow grinned

and I love

I love     I love—

all too high.

 

I want to get down,

throw laughter

to its feet.

 

Joints pop, hands set soft,

go on.

 

They’re there,     in the dark:

So lush       like hell, pride

violently loose with music.

 

Breath: glass in throat;

whistle: dreamy wide.

 

So quickly that there was a sparkle,

red right away,             I knew.

 

I looked up, loud,

eyes       wide,

glassy.

 

 

This is an erasure poem. Source material: King, Stephen. Carrie. New York: Anchor, 2011. 192-199. Print.