mantaraye

The rain patters down with a sound like
tiny pebbles or gum drops, it
splashes onto the wind shields of cars and the
roofs of trains. We slip across the quiet
tracks, and through a hole in the fence,
tumbled and bewildered as Alice, washed clean
like watercolors melting in a storm.
The trees drip daintily. Our words slip like songs
from the future off our tongues, scraped out from our
throats like tonsils plopped on metal trays.
Rose paints her nails black. Her skin is
gritty like eyeliner. Could we jump through
the film that distances us from our
experiences, and come out somewhere
on the side? So we wonder wistfully,
is this what life is supposed to be like?