Letters in the Margins

The demons in their loose overcoats measure. How far away heaven is. The spectrum. Trickles of antidotes. Threatening all those diseases that would make us special.

The glass doors refuse to shut. As I look through them. To the nothing I am obligated to covet.

The balloon bursts. Obvious Absalom's. Draw their treasure maps on cracked lips. The blood comes easy if you smile wide enough.

Holding her breath. Short stories that don't know when to end. The scepter firm in her grip. As she culls her kingdom. The crown far from her head.

The rain tells its stories in angry pellets. Little guns make their holes in the glass. It trickles in. Blood through thick bandages. I recognize the wound. but these pieces of skin don't fit the bones.

Audacious mannequins. Flaunt the callouses. That only worn flesh can boast. The table confirms its many ropes. The mosquito bites. Sick with the blood. That once made us innocent.

The rope comes close. The echo of the doorway. As the lock opens. Another dirty key I'll never use again. Another compartment in heaven asking me to be patient.