Friday 11/13/2009 01:15:00 AM

Little tricks. The grammar plays on the arithmetic. Save us the trouble of admitting why. The future is more mechanics than trust. The birdcage on her wrist. Too loud with bridges I had to cross. The seam on her back easy enough to split. With a sharp knife and some patience.

She's just a doll after all. Fleece and stuffing to fool the heart. Soft things to conceal the hard edges of what we grasp.

The maze comes into focus. Easily enough. The rain thwarting the walls. In willful defiance. The monkeys leaving their porch light on. So that we might evolve.

The time line in her flesh. Coming undone. Like so many fishing nets dredging the empty bottom. The god at her door. Throwing its ball. Making games out of us.

The future fiddling with now. The difference. Minutes. Years. Maybe more. Maybe less. Nothing I can count.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.