Consuming the Mass

Clay pots in the sun. Eyes the shape. Words the kiln. Until everything is hard.

Tall grass in the shade. Sifting the wind through the stale arguments it often has with strangers to my bed. Ghosts with long tails wagging learning how to be dead. Or at least forget what alive was.

He had the truth on index cards. Short speeches he'd only make afterward. When the sheets were pungent. Flaccid from souvenirs of sweat. And the perfume of womanhood searching for an exit. In scribbles on the back of his neck. Like the rings of Saturn. Or orphans hawking matches. On dark corners in bright worlds overrun with callous rich men.

Tall plants on narrow windowsills. Pretending to grow as time slowly passes. Chunks of gravity between us. Brings the sky closer. Pushes the ground further away.