Scraping plagues out of the dirt
with just the temperature
we cower in the basement
of our knowledge.
With so many freak
accidents around us it stands
to reason that we must be one too.
Extreme close ups of her eyes
fill up her photo albums,
and I turn the plastic pages
always nervous there is something
new I haven’t seen.
I find it on the final frame,
it is all of us leaning against
some fence somewhere
out in the city.
Her hair has all but
eaten up her face.
Album
Teleporting Typewriter 