The Bishop Closest To The Queen

Felt hats on clay heads. Hands. Needles. Make us. Picking up each stone to see what was underneath it. An infinite ceremony of how dark can it get when you can't see. Full of monks also called condoms. And Satan's on anti-depressants. Cordial weddings on the quantum fold illuminate the momentum of lost men.

Half the quotient is just deciding where to begin. The pattern unfolds. In furies of touch. The same way all our lives began. Statutory and selfish bouts of pleasure. Rebelling against the chaos that is its source. The slut. On her awkward high heeled crutches. Falling down.

In fractions of when. Strangers were easier to know than herself. And bones broke only to awaken the muscles. Life came to us in pockets. Folding. Rich with scrapped skin cells and bathtubs. Dirtier because we'd washed ourselves in them.

Old t-shirts. Alive with broken graphics. Fierce. Missing letters. Tease. I can't remember the words I once wore.

Velocity. In contraptions like we are. When someone removes our underwear. The cogs exposed. The grease in the engine hot and sparse. The hum. Of dying motors. Writhing with potential places. To go.

As if a destination alone is excuse enough to call off the search for something more.

Playing with time. Exhausted rubber bands. Stretch only so far. Before they snap.

The bishop closest to the queen is taken. It's a necessary sacrifice. To win.