The Moon's Weak Gravity

The bellman in his navy slacks stood looking. At the orange peel in the drain. The hours combust. In lenient explosions of skin. Salient stories to be told to the under garments left flat upon my death.

She nudges the clock. Frightened that it's been asleep this long. Teasing the dinosaurs as time manipulates her empty uterus.

Division comes in sharp epiphanies. The whole is a lie. The pieces survive us. To charm the window.

Still they open to nothing. Just as they always have.

Mute monkeys with big sticks in their hands. Looking for something to beat.

We fall up. We fall away. We try on the future with bullet holes in our knees.