It turns. On icy flanges. The tortoise under her skirt sighs. Bland dialogues. Ripe with giants and beanstalks. It flows. Each valve opening independent of the next. The fairies in her underwear taping their wands back together.
As she writes to lion in vindictive pauses. The razor on her wrist. A scared child. In an empty basement. A soaring kite. In whipping winds. Her eyes spilling out in the frenzy of her contrition. The men. The statues on her breasts. Cracked and obvious.
The hour whispers of failed dialogues. A bit of red rights the lapse. She toggles that ever-present switch. Licking it. Like a fading lollipop. As the years dissolve into so many broken windows.
She travels the road. Too yellow with wizards. Her breath on the curtain hardly enough to reveal. The gears and pulleys in the miser's grip. That would tell us to keep searching for what we have always possessed.
She lets it go. Confident she will catch it again.
Thursday
6/11/2009 12:59:00 AM
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