Petitions of If

how close we were. to knowing. the whims of dead men. the question resolves to what we are. Hem on the edge of the world.

the chase. the absent sermons of self. Heavy springs. Not inclined to give.

The monster. Lips stern with decision. The hours. Gentle and keen. As they slit her wrists. Numbers she says. But words are what she whispers. When no one is listening.

The trial. The purchase of skin. In places I'll never go. In journeys I'll never finish. The numbers in calm excuses. The certain arithmetic of when we knew. how close we were. how far we'd come. Her cunt presses hard against the wall. Imagining there are scales more delicate. than gravity's monotonous prison.