Touching the Edges

One thing dead seems appropriate. Several more. Only a consequence. Like cotton candy. And the Way that it is drawn toward the chaos. Vague choices in broken pinwheels and burnt matchsticks.

Ringing phones and no one there to answer them. We assume. Speculating on the parachutes at their backs.

The moment. A bubble burst from between her lips. All its sugar long ago digested.

Only a plaid man on striped contrivance. Of bones and speculum. As he inspects her for traces of the obvious.

Each hour. A torch scorching her fist. As she holds its fire up to the darkness. Pretending to see. The variations in her demons.

The edge of the world. Closer than she thinks.