Closer To The Proton

Fingers. Scales to weigh. Errant atoms. In the bomb. Just words to describe. The island. In its raw form. Seeds. Soil. Water. Ingredients. Not life. Seldom the architect. The apple. Hanging loose on the branch. The serpent. Dull fangs peel the skin. Turning the flesh brown.

There the child learns the arithmetic. The numbers that choose when we are. The butterflies whose sneezes decide what lives we'll have.

Deep in the window. Embedded in the glass. Frowns a face. Urges a hare. That this is a race. And we are losing it.

Just the future with its whiskey methods for resolve. And the past bent over with tomorrow's dick up its ass.

I reason with the time machine that it's losing us. And wonder whether it cares.