The Future In Fastballs

It's just clay. Stretched screen flirting with broken glass. The fireflies. In their rancorous utopias. Pausing between flashes. The sour petitions of frayed nylons and empty heels. Big empty ships. In a careless ocean. The precarious poke. As the chopsticks find the bone.

He answers. Though I never asked the question. He undresses. The same as any man would. In blunt stages. Like chewing gum. The sweet momentary. The rest indigestible.

It's not like I know. Or that I ever could. What makes windows appear where walls once stood. I only concern myself with counting the door knobs. Dead men with their fingers on the hem of her dress. Stubborn doorbells. Still ringing in her head.

She fiddles with the dial. Not believing. She watches lost knowing she is. Insisting they are all dead. She says time travel is like rain. Memory is the umbrella.

I closed the window. But it was too late by then.