But The Levee Was Dry

Turbulence. The economics of skin. Make me wealthy. Make me poor. Cautious flowers. Flirt with the garden. In choices unresolved. Pretty things convince them to choose. Though the choices are naught.

Puzzles arrive. Fortresses are erected. Busy toothpicks and bored fingers align. Douse me in glue and say it's finished. Play the thorns against the blooms and pretend we are not lost.

I construct the world in riddles. and wait for someone to solve. I build myself in plastic limbs. and let them play with the dolls. I speak to them in the past tense. and let the future prove them wrong.

I can see the picture, but don't know what it wants. I can feel the bridges. Quivering under my sprint. I run. But don't get very far.

I start with the edges and work my way in. The picture is jumbled, but I remember. How it once looked. The world is empty and so am I.

I start with the windows. Working my way toward the door. The walls arrive in pieces. Some assembly required.