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.
The Rain of the Ice
The horse's pain never imagines a house beyond the storm. Its mirrored breath forms a force that dies without noise. The ice in a sickened room is not salt. Its perfume pours a rain that deletes the tacit skin.