2 June 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 2
Deus ex Machina
1.
I am witness to the architecture
of her breath, her
sleeping. She is a fine
quiet thing until the morning comes.
When her dreams
are edged in horror. Her neck
angles upwards for air, more air,
and the air
shocks against the sudden speed
that pulls it, and her skin
takes on a desperate sweat
that she turns in, now,
and she braces against the bed, the
sheets, and I
could save her:
the turning point and the choice,
the lover,
the exactness of it, the nerves.
2.