The Cat on the Roof

She was ready with her verbs. Clotted with blood. Tasting the world in dead meat. Oh. The inappropriate things we use to kill that hunger. I was undressed by child. As the silence took over. We counted. The years on our fingers. Until our markers ran out.

We are. And so the verb becomes us. In distortions of the moment. I trace the outline. With my pencil blunt. To discover the picture as empty as ever. I can't see. Nor have I ever been able to. Reconcile the sun with my experience.

We is. Or at least. She was. Closer to the tangent. Plastic fingers stroke the rain. As it falls quite oblivious. To the soil it saturates.

I Had my verbs all arranged. My adjectives in neat rows of lovers. It's a barren fairy tale. As any. All those manic machines set on pause.

I had the time machine in my palm. Ugly jesters manipulating the lens. I could write the fable with my eyes shut.

Reluctant gods struggle with the verbs. Taking full advantage of the adjectives.

It's hot in here.

It's cold.