Strategies for the Dead

the number. a crush of no. in a ocean of yes. the question. sleep like daggers. stabbing the dream.

i want the tower. all the stairs to climb. i want to catalog each mote of dust. as it settles behind the absence of my steps. an even chaos. this warring retch. of sight and sickness. a barreling loss. thieving a man from his madness.

just figures. shadows on the eyes of the moon. as it stares at us through the blinding sun. a vehicle. a motion. only small because of the enormity of that which it seeks to see.

kings have their pawns. queens their bishops. expendable courtesies of touch. gloaming poker faces strut the blades each hour sharply toils. digging. as if there could be something beneath the stubborn heave of wind and sand.

she cries again. always. the cheat of breasts as his hands move her hips in curious circles. she cries. like a child would at losing a game. convinced it is the same. she cries often. as if tears could somehow make true the things she wishes were real.