and so your mouth would water, 

and your hands would wander,


and you'd kick your feet and shiver.


i'd find you curled up in a ball all around me, 

jumping in your sleep,


or awake, 

watching me dream.

 It surges in the head with pulse, so like smashing clenched fist into unpainted and unyielding concrete walls; nearly as bloody. Tunnelvision, le depassement du temps, and then nothing: No one left to listen to the rending sound of metal and fragments of glass scattering across the asphalt. 

There it is, There.


Somewhere riding the circle of sight, just outside of the fading red lines. 


There it is again. 

It surges, moves for life, menacing and hungry, no substance to speak of but somehow a worthwhile venture, somehow worthy of talking it to sleep. Put it to sleep so that it stays in place, gets away from the rivers of antifreeze and gasoline, stands clear of transmission fluid and motor oil. Not to mention the crimson mark, stretching across a hundred yards of highway.

Go talk to the graves, it's summer and the nights are shorter, so the sunlight can banish the voices in time to bring an end. It’s winter, and the nights are long, and they'll come searching, now. They’ll cradle ears and whisper as they close their teeth around the neck and turn the wheel downwards. Go talk to the graves, their truth is not far from the prime, and there they will wait like spiders...


Casting nets around the candle flames.