a misty rocket sky between father and daughter, he's all brass gears and clouded vials, obliviousness and blinders to destruction, driven participation in her slaughter, she's different each time but always distant, a waif, cool then familiar, lukewarm, eyes auburn now chocolate, while the mist is swirling through the park, braiding around the spokes of the turning ferris wheel and her dangling legs, he feels he's apologizing but he doesn't understand why, "no more stories past today, i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry" she's not listening, she's washed away, he's washing her away, tinkering habitually unthinkingly with this vast death machine, year after year their reunions at the park, increasingly strange and quiet, don't loosen his grip on the gearshift, her hand and her hand and her hand pass in front of his focused eyes unseen
No comments:
Post a Comment