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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume Six Issue One |
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Why must the blackness of nighttime collect in our mouths? Bottle on one side of the window screen. the moon's milk in steady streams. Sap in the evening atmosphere. * A dead housefly's eyes point up. Her cold wings down. * The letter that's ripped and rewritten spread out on the table — milk- fall off the edge. * White is the color of whatever we rely on. The roof rotting. The house bathed in artifice, floodlights at 2. * Lipstick covers a mouth in the shape of two wings on skin. Moth wings spread still on the screen wanting out. But there * is nothing for us inside the moon. No- thing for anyone but departure in breath. The brittleness of getting there — traveling fractures through a sky of glass. |
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