Sewing the Wind

the wet on her tongue still tastes of hours before. a storm rages between the creases in her lips. rotten apples. their skin not pierced. the meat devoured from within.

the blunt satisfaction. the spoiled justice. that can only be found in hopelessness. long threads unraveling to endless knots. frightened snakes twisting in the darkness. nothing without their poison.

the numbers arrive in colors. stabs of light that carve the sharper images. from the soft curves on the thought. division makes more from less.

with our every step the earth is shifted. gravity becomes us. the pull of hunger's fever. the shameless futility of want. the numbers. every one with their own beating heart. sick with the science of cause.

the threads may change. still the needles remain constant.