Visceral Mosaics

The empty balconies. Say her name. In soft winds through sharp windows. Cutting slowly. With a bent blade. The angel builds her house on the head of a pin. The demon in the thread. And we sew. A lifetime in each stitch. No clothes. Just curtains. For the windows. And stark attics. Whose doors never close. Gods come in fractions. The decimal interprets. flagrant dominoes.

Falling. One into the next. As we tend to do. A cascade. Of passions. Bigger than their vessels.

Gravity arrives in tightly sealed packages. The devil claims we've just met. But he's so familiar.

Prying off the doll's lips. Searching for the words inside her plastic skin. Giving her a name. Knowing these vagrant saviors. Beating on the fences. Where all that broken glass is kept.