Chasing Funerals

there are moments. some weaker than others. all desperate. pencil marks in the sober. deep woods and wandering children. a bouquet of breadcrumbs notwithstanding.

the flesh. a temperamental time machine. ripe with jagged puzzle pieces. and images struggling to focus. the  measures and the weights. small doors that spend her grief. like spoiled candy. the enviable curiosity of skin. like wet paper. giving away all that we put into it.

the frigid science. the cruel chase of flesh. weeping monsters in their judicious prisons.

no saviors. only thieves. in our trembling apocalypse. no archers. only the arrows that pierce. creating the wounds, the blood which drowns us.