Friday 5/14/2010 12:41:00 AM

Years ago ply their magic upon our tombstones. The dead converse with the living. In cautious fables. Cut short by poor arithmetic. She multiplies. She divides. Until everything is different.

Stubborn weeds and dying grass. As she waits on the house to find her attic. Hidden places. Too dark to tell. Set her fingerprints in the clay.

The spaces between challenge the math. As she fiddles with the engine. Truth and memory. Providence and provision. Seeking their series. Combusting. Grinding. Against the edges of the world. These bits of skin their only lubrication.

Counting out loud. Correlating. The coils and contraptions touch will evolve. From the simplest transgressions. An elaborate hierarchy of moments we only had hoped would happen. a problem so simple it's not worth solving.

A different time. The same as this. When we were us.

Only now we're not.

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