The bottom of the town has never
seen the crown, and broken auto parts
have gaps that light can’t get through.
Tunnels boring through the hillside
move like worms through shifting earth,
and all the trees are bent within the
greater landslide.
Backwards moving minute hands
scrape their fingers on the edges
of the clock and cannot pick
the lock to get us through the doorway.
Doppelgangers with pupils like cuttlefish
chew on bones and pour the marrow into
silver cups, mixing cocktails constructed
purely of the dead.
Teleporting Typewriter 