Pandora's Fist

Subtraction she explained. Is very much like physics. We open the windows. And wait. For the rain to find us.

The coiled snakes. In their mediocrity called additon. Presume to add to this puzzle we call skin.

The obvious arithmetic worries her senses. As she measures the margins. I can draw. Latent stick figures in the sediment. But I cannot make them listen. When I warn about the temptations. To prove it is ours.

The antidote. She insists. Is colorless. Since she knows that the world is drawn in outlines. We plunder through our petty bits of progress. Windows moist. And attics empty.

As those shadows start to name us.