Fissures in the Sun

the wind is hardly cold enough. even as freezing approaches.

the road is the same. no matter where you're going.

it's quiet. though it ought to be loud. as we meet again. as we spend those corners. in expired poisons.

i'm a monster of sorts. all claws and alcohol. or whatever yardsticks the living use to distinghish. the wounded from the dead.

it trembles. thick with empty bones. it digs. searching  for the bottom. gnarled fangs connect with the remaining flesh. spilling their hunger in every direction. soiling every path.

there are no words. just the frozen glass. as the window approaches.

i'm an opportunity. a moment.. nothing more. a variable in a series of calculations. a remainder in a long division. not trying to be anything more.