her footsteps simmer quietly. idling at the ostensible junctures between inertia and momentum. 

the world is stale candy and hollow skins. bereft of everything that once made us hunger. 

she opens the closet to access the machine. a stale device more apparition than engine. 

the long road whispers her name. falling leaves on a path that has no destination. 

she crawls inside its cage. and turns the key to wake it up. letting its lies wash over her. 

predation is a pendulum. it swings its blade in both directions. 

all her words are borrowed from thieves and corpses. 

time makes its creases in our flesh. 

but they're rarely permanent. 

 Tell the rain it need no longer fall. our thirst is finally quenched. 

the amber eyes of tomorrow taste our voices like papercuts. 

shred the maps. we've been everywhere. 

flesh is a scavenger. in the  apocalypse of touch. 

let the choices have their way. we've exhausted every wish. 

the truth spoils. fish hooks and fangs in a torn pockets. 

the hunt, only a thinly veiled surrender. 

the flood muses. staunch in its shallow epiphanies. 

time dances on the tip of her tongue. a barefoot aristocrat. 

selling cages to those already in prison. 

we are given our names.
by circumstance and contrition.
worn by the skulk of the wind
as it chases time.

sold at a bargain
into the slavery of earnest skin. 

we measure each moment
in burnt sugar and flaking scabs. 

the distance yawns.
bored by our panic.
we stumble over the zippers
in the backs of our throats.

choking on all the missing words. 

we watch the world end
from inside our dusty windows.
shuffling tomorrow's bones.
runners on withering crutches.
spent by the distance. 

we take the names they give us.
discarded dolls in yesterday's gowns. 

living as if they know us. 

certain they never can.

 time travels through us.
a silent thief.

wearing us as well
as we are worn by it. 

our steps are shallow.
though the terrain is deep. 

choice flinches as we fiddle
with its decaying mask. 

the houses are dark.
the windows all locked.

we are still strangers in this land.
though we've spent all of our lives being lost. 

the tortoise suddenly pauses. 
wondering after the hare. 

scorned by the economy of why. 

the race shrugs its shoulders. 
as the finish line laughs. 

her plastic pennies scoff at the well. too raw to pretend. simple auditors in the fallacy of why. 

her skin a dwindling currency. a hobbled predator in a concentric hunt. 

a feast of incredulous saboteurs. set their traps. 


only touch knows. or ever has.

how sharp gravity's teeth are.

as the edge opens its jaws. 

his stilted maps chafe against the truth. bound to creases sold too soon. 

time taps on the glass. burrowing much too deeply into a murky vein. 

smeared lipstick on the tender cheeks of why. 


curious fingers keep count. strangers sharing a collapsing bridge.

we wear the distance. discarded flesh leaves behind its answers.

long after we've forgotten the questions asked. 

 time travels through us. a silent thief. 

worn by the machines that move us. until the engine chokes on our flesh. 

animals in human costumes. 

evolution's seldom conspirators crease the curtain. as the stage thunders beneath our pause. 

thirsty beasts suckle at the gears. the sweet taste of when goes sour. 

small cuts in atoms make the molecules dance. 

dirty windows obscure our gaze. as the world forgets. 

only the colors remain. as we stumble over our choices. 

piglets in straw houses. bargaining with wolves.