You humans are all alike, no time no time,
no time is beautiful, before birth and after life.
My pancakes are shallow thoughts
stacked in the kitchen,
she adds a little honey.
I’m late for work at the hardware store,
mostly robots looking for spare parts.
They’re not like her.
I knew she’d leave soon enough,
soon enough I’d play the game, pretend I wanted her to go—
that’s how shallow I am.
She melded days with nights,
the phases of the earth and all things turning,
sun light, sun dark, candle lit, candle
You plan to forget me,
human, but I’m coming back,
so forget your plan.
She could freeze a butterfly above her open hand,
its wings of flight, each shining scale.
She pulled its time away, she told me,
left it not a second to beat against the air,
but I know it was something she did to my eyes
to make them see.
She took the bus to Uluru, said she was going to
write a little poetry. I cried in the kitchen,
splashes in my Pinot Grigio.
Some possibilities are too extreme even for speculative fiction, like diluting perfectly good Pinot Grigio.
whether—ten percent chance of liquid metal showers in the afternoon. Some detail below, as well as phantasma featuring three of the ghosts from Phantasms of Tocantins.