The Bibical Vortex

Sometimes it's that easy. The folds of her skin. Portioning the diseases. The particles in their frantic collisions. The physics like dead bulbs in crowded closets.

The hidden wake me up. Much too late. Stitches. In frail blankets. Attempt to fool the cold.

Dancing ironies on broken toes. She could crawl. Rage on the nothing. All the very things she keeps from sun.

The drugs try to find her. She finds them first. Silent amputations turn empty torsos into gods and kings. Found. Axes rupture the belly of the wolf. To expose children born dead.

The doorstep under her lantern. Casting shadows on the stairs. As they are escorted down. To where ragged gardens grin. Where the apple that was first bitten still waits.