she came home with claws and teeth exposed marrow leaking out her toes her spine jutting out like shipwrecked sunshine bending at the knee she removed her panties in front of the tv the weather channel predicted clouds coasting from coast to coast raining on parades and fairgrounds tearing down for the holidays “forgive” i said and she did i got down on the ground dug a hole full of brine tasted the last time we fucked her hips bucked in terrible turpitude i responded the blind leading the blind on the edge of the couch stained with bleach and cum until we found a rhythm of some kind a calm where we could build cities with complex skylines later i fed her steak and rough whiskey i smoked cigarettes an ashtray set on her belly i fell to reflecting on mirrors that had held her symmetry sleep is the place you go to die time is the instrument we use to wonder why it dines on morsels designed to fray like fried eggs smeared on shell white plates we circle each other in increments two weeks at a time we’ll never see coney island or palestine we missed out on hong kong we lost out on days spent together settled for hours turned inside out and pieced together by stolen plane rides we fed off the remains of telephone lines we are coyotes wolves mongrel dogs howling at a hair lip moon waiting for the day to break to melt high above high noon plains and husks of cities built to contain our hands.
W.M. Butler is Deputy Editor/Creative Editor/Publication Editor of H.A.L. and co-founder of the online literary journal Far Enough East. His work has been published in print and online.