Empty Buckets

words like temples. stilted with sun. the lamb on the butcher block. bloodless after so many years being cut.

the wall stumbles. tender appraisals of skin. leave us penniless. the bridge chokes on the water beneath it.

the world occurs in minutes. The heart measures in years. Disparity is a given. Her eyes are a time machine. Her sight is the dial.

maybe it's over. frayed ribbons on the floor. stalled revolving doors with hares running circles inside them. the clever tortoise free of such simple trappings.

the race is external. faces like gun shots. frighten the race into to happening. the pace is internal. i go as far as I can. The end of the world. Like otoo many clowns. In a small sedan. The end of the world. Like a time machine. Out of gas.

maybe we're beautiful. prescient butterflies. sneezing into the abyss. waiting for the tornado to realize. how thin these wings are that offer flight.

the distance overcomes her. the pale perfume of how. a stubborn time machine tracing the monsters. thick pencils. the mania of atoms. clutches to surface. spoiled to the now. it's only skin. shadows on the pale horizon of touch. broken by the gravity of desire.

she is when. the precipice of how. shouting lips. lick the edge of the world. the absence of god fills her. with possibilities. the world is distant. hungry wolves scour the darkness for missing lambs.

her time machine idles. empty smiles count. the lies she tells. to make the world real. it's all perspective. the geometry of touch. shapes her. the crass arithmetic of skin. wagers. how close she's come. to heaven.

her time machine takes her places. she never knew were there. candy houses. spread their breadcrumbs.

The world is hers to hate. Windows and all.