She links bodies with a crayon marker.
Sheets of time disrupted
close around her like seductive water.
The lime sky is paused for reflection.
The brown sinkholes open like pores.
Her veins roar.
I am in a screen
scratched by strange fingernails.
I am trying to watch her tail.
The flightless birds are taking off
like smoke. Gravity's gone.
I am not a mover of pieces or
a moving piece. She is the buttons
on an artificial cliff I climb.
The mourners and their pistons drive.
No comments:
Post a Comment