ambihelical hexnut

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My hands are uglier every year. My nails are rooted from their beds.

I would never lament a worn hammer, or vise; a tool should work until its joints give way.

Time, the ghost of movement, was never the enemy; only that time never rests, and I follow.

The void of time pulls my ear to the ground so I don't miss the hasty steps of tattered horsemen.

John and I drove fast through the hyperbolic hills leading out of Madison.

We shared our futures over cigarettes held precariously out of cracked windows with frozen fingers.

The future assumes life inherently.

As the roads into Chicago turned to thick, perilous slush, I still, god, thought about death-

We thawed our fingertips and my nerves wept as warm blood flowed over them. The future assumes purgatory.

****

In the summer our skin glows under heavy rays, we are supple and dark and warm to the touch

The sun sneaks up on us and as April breathes deep we're dripping sweat under our sweaters