Theoretical Poetics.

She wasn't born. The molecules collided she tells them. How she got here. She doesn't know. Except that god isn't to blame.

Anchors released. Apes on the verge of clothes. She's old. The smell of grandma. Mothballs and stray cats. Waiting without an alarm. To wake up. Dying is easy. She watches. Certain they are the fortunate ones.

It was pretty she said. As the moon smothered the sun. I can't see it, but I imagine that's how the world began. Blind and without knowing where it would end. I had my shoes in the doorway. Full of rain. And grass. Like I had been places.

I had been practicing. Knowing what is was like. To be a man. Soiling the atom. Waiting for the tears.

To concede her.

The life falling from her fists in beads of sweat. A tentative hold on nothing in particular. A sealed box. Containing some poison and a subject. Theoretically both alive and dead.

Just like everyone always is.