Forgetting the words for words

Broken finger boy caught in the treads of a border machine. “Let me down!” indignant cries. Like an owl or some other nocturnal predator. Bearded man with binocular eyes in a faded jalabiya color of night and stars slips through the treads soundlessly, pries the boy free and ducks out before rabbit guards notice. Smell of chemicals and lost chances dangling in the air like faded possibilities the color of stars. Hands through an iron fence, cut up, fingers broken, blood caught in the treaded wheels of a border machine. A boy in a pale thobe color of white hot blasts from transmission from Jupiter can be heard: “Render all Border Machines Obsolete. Gin and Tonic! Repeat: Render…” Soundless noise.

The boy plucks star man’s beard from the barbed wire wheels of a faded night, tosses him through the air, high above the rabbit guards. “See?” he calls out over the flying figure blending seamlessly with the night. “Si? C? You’re forgetting the words for words already.” Broken fingers woven through the threaded spools of border machines.