Impossible Angles

She woke up to hare. Had fallen Asleep to the tortoise. Anyway. It's all the same she said. Neither is going anywhere. Apple cores and banana skins toy with her discretions. A little house. Amongst many. With the lights out. With the meaningless people sleeping inside it. Dreaming up reasons to live another day.

The patterns. Poised on her crotch. The numbers. Obsessed with her cough. Little diseases. Finding for the motion. In dead things. Stopped escalators. Painfully close to the top.

Tall nets between them. As they pass the game back and forth. In a series of clumsy overhands. Idling in the hour. The year. The minute. The last part of the story pausing to finish.

The last of the bricks fallen down around the pig.

The angle of the sun ripe to burn us.