Crusades

Trying on the hours she wonders. How the minutes keep up. A tongue in strokes of fetid resolve. A hero searching for missing limbs. Time bending backward on itself. As if the two might might touch.

It's a portrait. A painting musty in an attic bare. Changing. Though no one notices.

She waits patiently. For the years to catch up. Dull teeth gnawing on the bones. That no longer fit into the puzzle of her skin.

This fallow sack of protein and ambivalence. Strutting through the needless cycles of taste and touch. As if the world was ever close enough.

A box. Burdened by when. A place corrupting the questions. A page torn from the device. Tremors of realization. She steps out from the chamber. With empty hands. And no one left to blame.

With this small world in her fist. This big one between her legs. And the gears of her time machine pretending to know the difference.