A Series of Minor Apocalypses

cold fingers grab at the wind.

paper skin bends helplessly against time's blunt edges.

little cuts overwhelm what remains of their shape.

eyes keep count. fingers press the curtain.

a brief shudder of clarity preceeds submission.

their machinations all spoiled meat and dirty windows.

tempting strangers discard their disguises.

the stairs tremble. as we make our way down.

stranded in the perpetuity of change.

no one left to remember the brittle thrust of our anticipation.

shouting at the math.

because our arithmetic has betrayed us.