countdown it was sooner than we thought-- the red number in the drain. the shoe hovering just above a slam. all the tea leaves had promised at least a decade but then oceans turned inside out. slugs fell like tears. barefoot, i went out to the garage where my father knit his coffin from steel wool & ice. told him not to worry anymore. what comes to pass will come to pass. the cloud of noise floating just over the highway. he stared like a pin cushion's face. i packed all my love into jelly jars. watched it buzz & limp. ate false strawberries with bare hands & wiped the stain off on any availible lampost. up the street, a home was being auctioned off to a hedge fund or a ghost. i'm rooting for the ghost. in the crawl space cats were telling their children the truth. i wish someone would have done so to me when i was small & pink-handed. instead, bibles rung like bells. i washed my face in the occasional river. then the time rushing like a slit throat. everything outward even the orange heart. even the woven basket. even the new blanket. even the school of minnows. even the elsewhere & the maybe maybe somewhere. all that gone. silk like & blue. kneeling on a tongue. my father worked & worked & it was still not here & i still was the only one watching as the numbers shed themselves--as the sun shrank & swallowed-- as the coffin became a slipper-- as a moment became a bookshelf thing. a paperweight arriving tethered to a white balloon.