Raskolnikov

Counting the apples on the ground. She wondered should she pick one up. The fruit of the tree as nervous as she was. The demon in its fancy pantyhose. Lubricating the turbine. As the future stuttered in a haze of pistons. The engine running on nothing but hope. The machine. Collapsing into itself.

Like a butterfly caught in her throat. The hurricane in its sneeze following too close. The thunder too quiet. The rain too verbose. She woke him up to ask him why. She fell asleep to the sound of his disinterest. Stockings on the clothe lines. Caught between the curses of the wind. Little monsters under her skin. Pressing all the wrong buttons on those dormant machines.

The hours. Stoic gods referring us to each other. As the years spiral flesh into screws. The muddy pools at the back of his heart. That I would swim in. All that filth plugging up the holes. The memories turning to liquid. As the flame stayed on inside that heavy stove. Just dead things she said as all that flesh moved closer to food. Just dead things she told herself. As the buttons lit up. The contrite imaginings of addicts. and poets. and those amongst us left human.

She had wasted so much time. Drawing maps. Not knowing where they led.