the water doesn't flow past the dam
it's stagnant and slow
clumped mud in the reeds
the truck doesn't go at the light
the engine croaks out, sputters, dies
the asphalt hardens too slowly
the paint dries up a century too late
the grass stopped growing yesterday
the sphere doesn't break under its own weight
the moon falls to earth, the tides go still
the lock is rusted to the gate
the pen scratches dry on the receipt
the cat has no kittens
our night lacks sleep

clouds glued to the sky,
stables empty,
sand clogging the hourglass.
mouth caught in a lie,
the child pharaoh mummified.

our moth is suspended in flame
no burning, no luring
powder on its wings preserved
no flickers of orange
no juice in its organs
dry - still - dry.
dust on its false eyes stipples

we wait in silence for the ripples.

[Featured Image: moth, public domain, by Mikkel Frimer-Rasmussen]