2 June 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 2

Deus ex Machina


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.