Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The Motion of a Broom at Sunset

Her cheeks cut into her face, and they met with the edges of her lips which, like hydrogen and helium, violently cradled fragility.

Then night fell, first from infinity, then from Milk, then from the moon, then from clouds, buildings that scrape, treetops, then from the curves of our brows and to our lids. Then, behind the lids, it was day.

When we woke we hammered until our differences were shattered garbage, and we swept with them the rest of us, too.