no.

or was it the door lurching open. steel and the tree. the fabric tree. through the sliding door. burning. the park through the lurching door. there a bench, a park, a smoke tree of cloth. there a child grins at a girl paused in blue. in the cricket sky. there, it happened. she hung, from the burning tree. a cold metal slip slid through the butter of her belly, through and through a double-bind; his septic smile; her flat-land flank; black mouth a gurgling, grinning, gagging drip of a mouth and cloth and cocktail. a molotov clown of cloth for a running nose. tossed in the river past the bench. in the park. through the lurching steel town door. through the lurching door, the tree, it happened. a lynching grin, happened. the hand on fire held tight and slid the slip of cold through the butter of her lips, her popcorn hips, her corncob teeth, her cupcake hands. let slip the grip of cold blue and grey stone to stick. her mouth. her hole. her sanguine without cotton etiquette, unwrapped. how did it happen. a hand grips this stone before, this tree before, this lip before black with heat before, this fireless light before has crushed the blushing mirror of this fun house lurching stairs and carpet floors. like blind or eyes grinning before.