Distant Itches

Cupboards on the walls. Looking for Einstein in aging oatmeal boxes. The button on her thigh. Scornfully repeating us without a sound. Trap doors. At the back of her throat. Swallow the years. Like every hour was written down. And all that paper is burning.

Never mind the paradox. That tells me I'll never see myself again. I'm gone. I know this. Ice on the glass ransoms all reflections. The chamber. Awash in wolves. Bargaining with atoms. For one more explosion.

Closet doors with mirrors on them. In dark confessions. Neurons break the skin. A cloud of choices. Suffocate the sick. Distant itches awaken. In dead flesh.

The tunnel folds around the sunlight. In broken bones and flaking scabs. The world comes into focus as she loses her sight. Distant itches find the trigger.

At the bottom are musty elevators that haven't moved in years. At the top is where I am.

Looking down.