Philosophers without Bait

His press settling into her wrists. Paper cuts and dirty bandages. Arrange her grief. Fingers dying. Useless devices. Feel, but cannot keep. The melted sun. Stains the crotch of her new dress. The colors. Excited atoms. Born in lead. Dead wolves with open bellies on her doorstep. Children crawling out of them.

Certain the world has paused in their absence.

The watch on her wrist. Telling stores in reverse. Chasing Faraday cages. To perpetuate the loop. Empty pages. Filled with ink.

Coax the dead. With broken doorknobs on exits for impossible labyrinths.

Go slow. Discovering her smallest holes. Put in the shovel. Tame that unstoppable time machine with violence. Dig until the hole is deep enough. Set her like an alarm. She'll wake you up when you reach the time that you belong with her.

If you ever do.

Go fast. Find the future and then. What to do with it. Stray cats in their tuxedos pay the admission. But never see the show.

Fiddling with the settings. Cooking the yolk. Arguing with the demons. That assembled this vacant throne.

Her legs remains open. But the glass is missing and the window is closed.