There is evidence of an exchange. A cold barter for needless things. The harpoon lost in the blubber of the whale. Anxious fishermen tugging on their empty ropes.
There is the antidote. The stale serum in her frown. Base with all the place this disease has taken her. The stitches. In her blanket of dead leaves. A cacophony of how. Those broken feathers ever managed to locate the ink. And numb fingers could write on missing pages.
The evidence plagues. As she wrestles with the now. Strict teachers. Ambivalent morality's. The question begs its answer. But she only begun to ask.
The question labors under the paradox. To ask. To answer. She asks when, but is thinking if.
Pasting her gods into collages. As if she knows where they are.
The glue left on her fingers keeping them close