The Endless Dance

Sight tangles in small eruptions. The wet dream caught in her throat. Surges after the sand. In flat footprints. Time. That faultless dragon setting fire to every house.

Listen. To the drum roll of her thighs as her panties are removed. Life delivers itself to us in the such modest packages.

Count the hours in humble devotions. Vultures with their long necks in the carcass. The dead punch the window. With bloodless fists. Specters of time machine I never perfected.

They are skin. Eager lesions to stifle the flow of the open wound. They are panic. Sweet manias. on the fingertips of the sun. Brighter than I can bare to glimpse.

Now. In edible confusions. The hungry shadow choreographs. A dance so sour and intricate. I'd rather I couldn't hear the sounds.

The math betrays. Empty dresses. And missing feet. Lap the quicksand. We throw our stones and the window breaks. But I hear nothing.

The need decides. These feeble machines. Which will take us nowhere. The broken gears. Keep counting skin. Not moved at all. We wake up. In a crowded bed. Alone again.