Our favorite
brothers? Carry their
minutes up and over.
Run past the
bishop’s hill. Blind as photons.
Or remember
butterflies in a box, but
the box isn’t real,
so.
So stand to tell
the day go to hell.
Gather underground
while clocks lose track of time.
How the day
wills us nothing but
vacated promises. So the
accident of cold
pulse. So the need
to have wings instead
of arms, an ageless
fiction inspired by hospital
dreams
when Venus descends.
