Portions

The trigger in her lips. The bullet in her thighs. Each woman is a weapon. All men are target practice.

She was tweaking her time machine. Fiddling with the dials. As the dinosaurs roared in the distance. The past is a booby trap. The future a terrorist. Now. I search for this now that is so hard to find.

Her bra on the carpet. A loose deck of cards. Waiting to be shuffled. Dealt. A calm obsession with internal physics. A nervous clock in her chest. The dying battery hanging on to the second hand. As time pauses. To let her catch up.

Going back to her schematic. Adjusting the for shear and the ominous variables. The window tenses as her raindrops approach. Failing without somewhere to land.

The motor chokes on her compromise. Skin bleating from distant pastures. As she counts the sheep she has left.

The machine stutters and whirs into a fugue of purpose. Sending her nowhere. A wolf. Huffing and puffing. As the pigs sleep between their bricks.

I tried to seduce the demons, but they weren't at all tempted. I built the pyramid in her backyard and waited for it to fall.

Playing with the notches on old belts. Reasoning with time like hopscotch. A stone or two. A breath of chalk. To determine. How close we are.