The Morals of Coercion

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Counting the hairs on my leg. Stopping at one thousand and one. Just because its close enough to zero. The abstract of a yellow light cautioning in the distance. Like the wink of a great monster with secrets to tell.

In statues made of skin. With eyes too big. We waited for the artist to return. To fondle these shapes. Manipulate the strict geometry of reason. As we had tried to do and failed. As we had imagined everyone must have done.

The child spoiled by the epiphany. The pavement scored by the sun.

I think I've woken up alone. But the sheets say different.

Take the elevator. I'll meet you there. Take the last of the daylight. I don't want to see.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

The dummy's in the courtyard. Swollen in his stance. Consoling the living with paper ladders. I'm high, but never high enough. To break the glass.