The Names We Give It

Twelve steps later I hadn't gone anywhere. Fragile urns swapping ashes between the dead. Lubricating the awkward intercourse sobriety has with its strays. Eyes straining on the picture to find the lines that make it whole.

Time goes off like a camera's flashbulb. Turning all our subjects red. Ample follies beat the batter into men. warm ovens rise it. In wagers of surrender. Attitude ignores the alarm as knotted linens tear me from my nightmare.

Of the stolen children I've yet to have. And the feeble bridges we let life build. In broken letters that I'd never stamp. I hold on to the envelopes. The notion that our skin lies to us most of all. And every bandage only encourages it to lie again.

There's no way to gauge. How much further it was.