Counting the Empties

tepid tornadoes boast their break from gravity. the sunrise scribbles like a crayon. smearing colors on the canvas her flesh pretends. all numbers. always a series. like pages. bent and barely read. the moment languishes in our stubborn apathy. all needles and thread. too loyal to ambivalent demons.

she breaks. pieces everywhere. she runs. quickly out of breath. the monsters attempting to translate lost bits of her humanity.

she says it's okay. because the scar is obedient. a little it of blood. and then it's hard again. nothing can penetrate.

the soul is all weights and measures. a series of shadows. each one divisible by the next. a contrary magician selling  empty tricks.

her voice is shattered. in a frantic resolve. her love is spent. quickly and without regard. in gold watches and used condoms.

the world ends behind closed curtains. lazy ladders stroke the heights. all soil on the playground. and the foul momentum of strangers. gorging themselves on the fantasy of life.