Suicide Missions

Congenial monsters fiddling with the portal. She goes back. To claim the future. Tracing the reflections in pieces of broken mirror. She measures the ladder. In dominions rather than inches. As if there is purpose in this eternal charade. Where skins collide with an electric crackle, but no fire is generated.

Boasting wars on distant horizons. Gathering soldiers with fried shrimp and chocolate syrup. Her parachute opens. And she is amazed to fall gently to the ground.

The closed book chasing her. As she tries to explain to the future that it has already occured.

The waves displacing the sand. Liek so many lonely men. Obessed with rockets. And the cautious flames that allow them to imagine there is still heat.