Blind Tailors Deaf Violins

She revels in the texture of hours. As she chews on them with the same fervor as any addict. Heavy boxes. Full of nothing. That taste so good.

The purchase of morality is usually on credit. Little sticks. Big drums. No rhythm. No one listens. But anyone can dance.

An eager rodent. Tail atwitch. A dirty princess. Licking the pea.

There are dancers. Minute ghosts on the edge of her eyelids. That die and are born again with each blink. Manic witches with their heads boiling in the cauldron. Crippled insects in the shadow of the toad's kiss.

She dances to the creek of sagging bridges. Too far is as close as she's ever been. It's all music to her. The slow decay of skin that delineates her world. The pieces in which it arrives. The millions of positions they might take. The picture they could almost make.

The scrape of touch. Extracting life from graves. The inherent duality of want. That it might be possible to take and give in equal portions. She tries on again. Those borrowed moments that once let her live. As though she were the same.

They still seem to fit.