| Pumice Knuckle A blindworm creeps beneath a sandfly. Here, a woman�s lips are white and flaking. The pale pillar of her left arm holds up her shoulder, from which her body hangs, flaccid. Again, she scoops the grains of desert quartz with the tin sifter. A sky without a cloud, and still no needle. I am far distant in my stainless lifestyle. My splendid coffin. From a city skyline symphony, movement under the red sky is sprawling and arachnid. The glass snowstorm begins. Though my eyelashes knot, my irises flex distant. |