Warp Factors

time machines. like warm thighs and cold lips. hum on the thick of their gears. the world spins. a manic pinwheel ferreting breath from the tight choke of the wind. its tender noose spinning life from so many corpses.

the sidewalk painted pink. she's too old to know the difference. except that it's harder now. to sleep. to pretend the day is over and life has happened. that the dream is enough.

counting. the stoic arithmetic of cold sheets. names the bean stalk. as her jack descends. and the giant crashes. her beans still useless. time machines. like dull knives. on the thick skin of epiphany. she wonders. which came first. life or death. what makes them different.

This heavy marker in her hand. that blots out the ladder up. this broken pencil between her fingers. that stabs. at the treasures that were almost drawn.

this time machine with its plastic stare. waiting for her answer.