two lips and now it’s thunder boiling trouble the artist splashes paint over the looking glass who knew skin could be electrified and blades could stab the barks of trees too high.
Flee while you can while the seconds, the seconds stick together like rats – why is the road so dark why does the light flicker on and off – the graves weren’t truly closed were they? and was the sky really so blue? the clouds have suffocated travel, travel has slaughtered the pencils that she used to write her name in the register (will they find her fingerprints?) remember that she forgot to turn off the light in the night when the night stole the rubies from her father’s pocket – luck slices sin and sin slices time and back again on the road at the crossing – let the black forge you into a teaspoon or a key but don’t bite your nails.