the wolves wear their fangs in gaunt confessions. an engorged yes studded with famished noes. 

why wait for time to give us permission. we're still young enough to make it chase us. 

the piglets built their houses again from what was left. after they'd been blown down. 

why argue with the disaster. when it's easier to start anew. 

the corners pretend to know our path. broken roads chew on our flesh. 

grandmother slips out of her nightgown. her end our beginning. 

why carry the picnic basket into the woods. knowing its contents. 

because our hunger still persuades us. 

that the story has a happy ending. 

 the light grazes her skin. a hostile contrarian stout with gravity's broken stare. 

her words negotiate with the darkness. as they always have. the frivolous bargains of temporary gods. 

the puzzle solves for itself. in a curious contradiction of logic. swallowing her world in a trickle of choices. 

time pauses to whet its edges. its blade heavy with expectation. 

she lies and says she can see them. as they disappear into the distance. 

the wind kisses her lips. a vague conspirator in an endless Armageddon. 

her hands open to grasp the light. as they always have. 

but it's not there anymore. 

 the places we've been tumble through us. a caustic consortium of outlaws and conspirators. 

the purple bridges choke on the moon. as we arrange our artifacts. to the onerous consent of absent martyrs. 

let the rain bleed through the wilted bandages on spoiling corpses. all our wishes wasted on the derelict promises of temporary beds. 

the yellow wind stings as we continue to run. a shattered puzzle of faces desperate for names we can no longer give to them. 

time slithers under her skin. a glorious thief. 

the years press their fingers against the glass. strangers in familiar disguises. 

the distance goes on. an infinite fever. 

she keeps count. by small cuts and little drops of blood. 

every color strains against love's dubious auditors. 

still the truth insists. a relentless infection. 

the only cure is to surrender to it. 

 time's ambition wears our torn sleeves. no names left to give. to the cowards and the antonyms.  

all our sinking parapets tremble under tomorrow's astringent gaze. 

crippled tongues choke on stray words. 

our skin's missing buttons leave us exposed. 

to the curious math of gods and poets. 


the ugly treaty between truth and touch. spends its adjectives on empty boxes. 

we don't dare look inside and see what we know is lost. 

slender needles deliver our poisons. 

the chase is long since over. 

only the end still listens.


we chew on the edge.  

our choices more zippers than teeth. 

orphaned exclamations. 

bargaining with gravity

for one more mistake. 

 i wouldn't dare to guess what you wanted.

but i saw the colors of your ache

and knew what you needed.


we were small in every possible way.

strangers in borrowed skins. 

mercenaries choking on empty ammunition. 


i wanted to fall and you were the nearest edge. 

i wouldn't ever try to know what that meant.   

but i tasted your grief. and it was exquisite. 


we were smaller than we'd ever been. 

scratches on time's pendulum. 

scorned by its perpetual sway. 


we lived within the confines of our choices. 

you were a puzzle i couldn't solve. 

i was a problem you couldn't fix. 


we were so small. 

and yet. 

nothing's ever felt bigger. 

 the silence clutches her breath. a stray pebble in its fist. 

no time to suffocate in a world as frantic as ours 

we take the seldom paths. wanderers in fragile masks. chasing any remaining faces.

the syllables chafe her lips as her words speculate their trajectory. 

the world hums under her skin. all wet paint and spoiled geography. 

the fairy tales have their protagonists. salt and vinegar on raw abrasions.

the villains slumber on soiled sheets. while their victims feast on their mangled carcasses. 

flesh tells its stories in limping words. a monster in a beautiful gown. 

dancing with strangers. 

to music no one else can hear.