Connecting the Dots

I spoil no gestures with such a fallow thing as words. The walls high enough to enjoy. As the bricks fall upon my feet. The thief a welcome distraction. From the glass between. The lies I tell myself and the one I let them think I believe.

The future is spilling from her genitals. The past is a long negotiation with her tits. There once was a machine. Fool enough. A person. so passive as to pilot it. Survey the path of dead stars. Chart the universe in calm fatigues.

Open boxes. Unlit matches. Failing for their heat. The bare octopus. Every arm reaching.

A breath. To blow out the pilot light. A flinch to turn up the gas.

A bit of plastic. That resemble the pieces.