Saturday 1/02/2010 01:03:00 AM

Small charades reveling in bursts of fog. Memory comes later. With a callous blade of sun. To cut the clouds. Let the rain spill out of the sky's jagged uterus. Born again. Into a paradox of skin. That's reserved for touch. And the rest meant for wanting it.

A summary of cautions. Not unlike neglected children. Sleeping in the feces. I wake up to an absentee sun. Wondering why the clouds never listen when I tell them it's rained enough. I ignore the snow and pretend that the winter is feeble. A series of icy bridges. Leading me into the arms of strangers. Faces too close to the window. Turning ugly as I begin to dream.

A time machine. A weak trajectory. Vague numbers. As we covet. Stairs too steep. Climbing. Upward. Searching the empty spaces. As lightning hits the roof. These windows hopelessly scouting. For a world to show her.

All that glass breaking. As she finally wakes up.

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