Four Way Stops

the measured autonomy of silence is swift. a grave architect. all dry mortar and wet bricks. the hum of construction in dead ends and open drawbridges. death is never about the grave. only what's left.

the distance wears her. pink cheeks and stained denim.

she wanders. the leash forgotten. finding only new versions of lost. colorful and arrogant. as are all disappointments.

the religion of skin is persistant. though less than reliable. there are never words enough. there are never the right colors. to prove those monsters exist.

so we just bark. like dogs. frightened by all the noises too big to understand.

drowning in the shallow end. her thighs like melting ice cubes.