a scape

un chien andalou

cuts us open

for clarity

and the sun
surely

does not belong

here

there is only

mayhem
below us

and fire ants
glowing orange-red
on an exodus
to the clouds above

we were holding

hands

twelve-hundred feet up
on the garcia trail
squeezing so hard that it hurt

her long black hair

alive

and dancing in the wind
swirling like a van gogh skyline

we watch it all

waiting

for the screams
to stop

for the cities
to finish burning

and where her eyes should
have been
there was emptiness

her lips
dried and cracked

her voice
in deep inaudible murmurs

and everything
without





meaning






i miss her.