nietzsche

its eleven o'clock
and something's not quite right
a frozen object
a time run in her silk stockings
looking past
the trees ghosts
something in the kitchen
is menacing and cold.

it's a half past now
the glasses crooked green
her laugh slips through the door
she runs to the car.

its licking backwards
the whiskers tremble
reliving the experience
but not
the people smile
and she's not there.

it's almost over
the air is thick and grey
something loses touch
nobody to call
how many graves need to be dug
to fill her own hole?