Open Books

i was soft. fallen snow. empty boxes. the distance stuttered. more pragmatist than hero.

there were voices. filtering in from outside the walls. the shaky conundrum of circumstance tying knots in our thread.

we kept the day. in an analog of blood. the hours like gauze. thin and stiffening.

places to go. tomorrow's treason abrupt and lingering. all poisoned cats and uncertainty principles. the lengthy extremities of want negotiating context. as we thumb through random chapters of touch. peddling our stories. carcasses flirting with buzzards.

the corner hit. and direction swallowed us. destination choked. leaving us stranded.