Fletching

To go back again to a place you have never been. To hold animosity in a handsome timepiece. Watch my hands, slight these freedoms, enter with the wind. Not a scent. Pretend with your heart, these dolls live, and they open doors, and they slaughter innocents. To move backwards in the blackest rain. To dissect my melancholy trials upon the bedrock to which I crumble. I envy the stitching on my suitcase. Place these branches in suspended animation. A dance to sheathe the sword, that troublesome thorn, on which to toss the chum of guilt and shame. Lick these ashes. Eat this corpse. Find my descendants and murder them all. Downward as the arrow reunites with earth.