They return from the killing
tossing sharp things to the side,
making everyone remember
where their loyalty resides.
Someone slices through the fabric
of their seat in the room, and they never
stop pretending at the times that
we assume.
There’s a woman in the bathroom
with blood on her legs. Premonitions
haunt the corridors where everyone begs.
They play their music while in motion
from one building to the next, never
noticing the signatures on government
checks.
Blank expressions on the faces of the
passively amused remind the few of us
who notice them the aim is to confuse.
At night we watch the planes come in
from the hillside where we drink.
They try to grab a hold of you and only
let you think.
Teleporting Typewriter 