Nara-Nara Land

    Behind the school set against a cerulean sky, on a strap of black rubber suspended with chains from a metal frame, she swings.

    Down the tiled hall that would echo a cat's steps, at a desk on which there are as many pens as there are papers to be written on, he stares.

    The swing squeaks twice on each round-trip: just before it reaches its zenith on the backward arc, and for the first third of its forward swoop; a creaky, mechanical iamb. Heart-beat.

    There is no time, there is only time, every single time she glides forward the air makes a balloon of her skirt. He flames. His palm sticks to spelling words.

    Through the cold hall, against the still sky, secrets ricochet to eternity.