Thursday 12/10/2009 12:32:00 AM

The math left her cold. Years worth of numbers. Blindly telling the world stories about her. To the chagrin of indifferent equations. Numbers. She winced. Are all we are. Heavy rocks. To be pounded. Until. The pieces are small enough. That we can carry on.

This skin. A flippant device. To feign the world still listens. When I scream.

These fingers. Brittle sticks to press sticky buttons. On the tired machines. We've devised to relive. The moments that failed us. The empty basket. In her arms. As she wrestles with the concept of the wolf.

Going back is easy. Simple physics.

It's every other direction where I get stuck.

She asks me to try on her pitchfork. And I do. Choosing my devils. She whispers from inside a cardboard fortress. That the world is small enough to fit in her pocket. And I find it there. In the depths of her pants.

My own pockets are empty. My own time machine faulty. But she is still running. How far I don't know.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.