Pixies on her Fingertips

Maybe it comes like this. In folds too small. Helpless fingers uselessly undoing and closing. Empty openings in the skin. Maybe it does. Is. This obvious. That even I can see. How easy it would be. To let go.

Maybe we are. This weak. This strong. Butterflies. Paper wings. Convincing the wind. We're ready for the storms. We never imagined could be so big.

Maybe we are young. Maybe we are old. We've been both. And neither. And have been humbled by too many graves.

The world arrives in doses. Little bits of medicine. As we make ourselves sicker. As we work the disease. Little pieces of clay. Drying on our fingers. While the wheel still spins. With ashtrays and vases.

The night arrives in silk and leaves in tulle. First I can only feel it. Snaking over my skin. In tender bites. That only take a little. Afterward it's all empty bones. And butterflies on their broken wings. Changing the world.

Maybe it's dark. This close to the sun. The hours choking off. Like steam engines. Running out of coal. Maybe I'm covered in soot. From shovelling all this fuel, but I'm getting closer.