Sad Labels:
alone
,
math
,
mirrors
,
uncertainty
the edge comes to her. says it's waiting.
pale ducks count their feathers. while the woodsman sharpens his axe.
manic stories awash in a cliche of touch. the temperate mayhem of pretending to wait for what you know will never come.
lazy bridges and lovers mimic the ocean. rising and falling in a tireless repetition. the smaller the hole, the more it seems to lose.
the blunted hammer speaks softly. negotiating with the nails. the broken zipper has its poetry. and a broken heart has its scales. but not everything can be measured. even gravity has its mercies
the world has its outlines. it's for us to fill in. the edge calls out. and she is tempted to grab it. the broken math of skin keeps counting.