Dwindling Calendars

The monster between her thighs was priest enough for any funeral. Her pussy like a curtain. Between the acts. Of a play almost written. It's just sex she said. An on ramp. To the highway. Where time moves quicker. And skin answers our questions. In lingering essays.

Reasoning with the Devil will only amount to so much heaven. Enough she thought as she kneaded his chest. Alone is carnival enough. The world bastes in shallow poisons. I am infected too. But some die quicker.

I chase the coyotes. With the skin in their teeth. I push against the angles. Still the geometry remains.

Stiff in the palace of her empty dresses. She tries on each disease. Assuming something will fit.