Time Machine
I almost died a week from now.
A dandelion stuck in my throat.
Frostbite no matter the season.
There is a crash in time.
Exhausts itself.
Perpetual.
A scuffle with dying in all four corners of the room.
And more corners still.
The burden is fresh.
If I died in a time machine tonight.
I wouldn’t even get close to the blight.
I would evaporate like the kitchen sink.
Drain myself like an empty skating rink.
The burden never grew veins.
Choking on a stepping stone somehow.
Traces of what I thought a time machine was.
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