Apostles

Polite intrusions measure the profound. Bits of skin like yardsticks. Carry the soil in a concatenation of how far. The virus appeals to her soft spots. The weather descends without regard. And we are blind as we once were. As we have ever been. Looking out of these soiled windows. Praying to these absentee gods. Searching for demons in all the wrong places.

Weighing gods against drugs. On broken scales. Perusing the flesh that chases us. In ruddy scabs. Thick with hard blood. And missing skin. Devout with a time I've not been to, and yet cannot forget.

It's only now. Or it was. When last I checked. It's only combustion. Trapped on the checkerboard of our lusts.

Little dolls cut from paper. With scissors too big for her hands. Numb fingers unfolding the instances. In a series of when. She could remember. Or even begin to suspect. Anything mattered.

The dead trees. The browning sun. Fervent in their eclipse. As the world stumbles.

Searching for and not finding.

Where.