Sunday, July 3, 2011

A Tournament of Waifs

What constitutes a good feeling? Dry snow on the blacktop late on Halloween? A shriveled monkey's paw ripe with fury?

Books piled high on a circular table, a half-melted candle, broken monocles, an antique pen. We fell asleep inside a tournament of waifs. Come back in an hour if you still want to go.

Beneath water, still breathing. The difference is measured in spoonfuls of sugar. Halfway to hell we stopped to take notes.

I remember you, yes, but not that precise mask. Quartz is familiar, daisies are nice. Nobody follows the news anymore.

A pile of stuffing next to dismembered dolls. We laughed until we were hoarse and still couldn't make it funny. A book with both pentagrams and caveats.

All night, the shutters swing back and forth without a breeze. A dull infiltration of the familiar. Bold talk with a spark out back.

Seven wishes cut in half. The kids asleep, a knock at the door.

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