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A giant propeller chases me across my snowcovered backyard.
Propeller of lost vision.
Propeller of little pixels.
A giant propeller with red hair and a pierced nose.
The giant propeller filled with midnight.
It chases me all the way from Balsam’s rhododendrons,
all the way from Tuckasegee’s bone-fountain.
The giant propeller chases me
waving its sharp blades, horrible blades, blades of sabotage.
I fall over my tongue and a loosely healed rib.
Solar-willed propeller.
Blue-seamed propeller.
A giant propeller grazes my neck, gnaws my shirttail.
It dances to the taste of my blood.
I run past checkout clerks.
Some have moons in their foreheads, moons that can destroy
the giant propeller.
I don’t know how to use those moons.
Propeller of fluorescent bones.
Coffeehouse-destroyer propeller.
Propeller of the empty bed.
A giant propeller chases me through rubble and late nights.
I’m chased into a basement,
basement of damp-oozing cinderblock walls.
I crouch under the stairs.
My thighs throb and shake. My heel doesn’t stop bleeding.
Devoured city propeller.
Propeller of footprints.
Propeller of vindictive stars.
A giant propeller barricades the door, moans through the keyhole.
The sound of the giant propeller is a tattoo on my arm,
an open road and in it
two Chinese fighting fish: one dark, one light,
tail of each in the mouth of the other.
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