concrete over concrete over cardboard over sand. in the cradled hands of the soldier lies the last thing. it is writhing, trying to find air. water. all things it hasn’t ever known. not once.
the shadow made by the town hall covers over the place where it happens. it stretches as the day does. out across each moment with intent and then retreating. failed attempts to crush the larynx of life with a smothering. the sun scared off by the insistent heartbeat.
burrowing into palm flesh. warm to hot to burning and submerged inside the blood. the last thing takes itself inside the body and makes it crouch and squirm. soldier made mother house and father home. endless tunnels of bloody flesh.
the square under darkness is quiet. even with the screams of the lone crawling body that tries to reach its edge. a car park for no car and a plaza for no people. thick limbs and scratched skin drag themselves along.
if the making is done then we are all done too. if the body leaves the acre and the home of the last thing makes itself outside the square. if then, the sun will know not to turn away and the shadow know to lengthen.
GlitchOut 