Wet Cement

Portals. Clay men. Softer still. By the heat. Drawing pictures with numbers. Division. What remains. The steps. Up and back down again. The minutes. Extruded. Like meat through a sieve. All extremities fall to the center.

The parallel. Proprietary touch. In small warehouses of skin. I wake up in the cellar. Urgent with confessions. The absence bleeds into the commitment. As the moon seeps into the sun. The lock was made for the key. Not the other way. Pistons and tumblers. Rape the grooves. Doorways. Window that open. Let the world tumble in. In quick tornadoes. And blatant hurricanes. Those that survive are unfortunate.

Portals. The heart is a sewer. Carries away that waste. Convinces us we loved the stench. Love is a morgue. Preserves the dead.

The angles. The geometry of men. Acute and limited. Rusty swing sets squeak as I play. The visitor. The child displacing the sand. Making footprints the wind will soon erase.