covered every window in the house with x-rays of my bandaged eye. "working backwards from the sky" says she follows every fissure until it's time for the stiches to come out. When something falls you should pick it up. "spilled sand and lamplight" has been my sister for a while now. They say we are slivered glass. Fluttered numbers and milk. Flickers sutured in skin. They tried to convince me that half the word filament is night. Every rattled out lightbulb means a brother's pillow is burning. We all watch the clock. Eyes running out of aluminum.
Venom erupted from the trees when the vital system of the brook reset its serum stem. Can suspended snakes compose a more careless music? Do two detached wings count as an exoskeletal gesture? A hiss is the sound the sky would make if these leaves revived their flight.