eleven weeks
we could wrap our hatred in white cotton, warm and secure as if our offspring. then we could let ourselves wonder aloud how a god of ether and power could remain as silent as a god of wood or stone. we could blame our affliction on staggering satellites slipping from their orbits, spitting lines of violence throughout our well-ordered sky. we could record our sense of abandonment in the crackle of a worn stylus on wax. then we could act out a whore's story, painting desperation onto our faces in layers of snowy powder and rage with a yellow laugh. we could blame our affliction on the angels that fell, whose wretched wings kicked up angry dust and clouded the distance where we sought that place we were foolishly unafraid to claim.

©1998 Timothy A. Clark