Gravity's Underpants

Numbers. Collisions of when. The world was small and distant. A thin shadow on the atmosphere. Fortified by an eclipse.

The blue. Blunt diamonds in a minefield. A molecular war. Ripe with perpetuity of pleasure. Teeth on the ink. Faces in the monsters. Paper people piss on the forest. The witch is dead, but our breadcrumbs still wait for someone to follow them.

The science of skin is well documented. Rain in the morning. Steeps the lust.

Thunder in the afternoon. Shouts louder than the eipipahny of touch.

Drought in the evening. Teaches us to forget.

She runs on her hands and knees. Just one image clenched between her teeth. The Earth. A small stone. Lost in the cold brevity of a universe governed by science. Herself so much smaller yet.

She has yellows. Virulent tumors growing on the branches of her thoughts. The tilting tree. Pokes the clouds. Needs to be rained on again.

The dead of the world presses close. Eager hunters deferring to the whims of blood.

Counting. Out loud. Cocktails and similes. Fixated. Like the world is ending. Because it is.