Undulating fisherman’s whispers lay in a crisscrossed pattern atop star dappled fields. Sound, like motion, is illusory. A tangerine mirage, trapped within stained Tupperware, contained within the porcelain of chipped teacups and discarded doll heads. Zeno’s paradox continues to hang in sharp shards, like a mobile of shattered glass creating concentric circles, infinite gold bands wrapped tightly around the crescent moon.
A tourniquet braided around weeping flesh wounds. Pressure causes iridescent essence, viscous sap, to ooze from the astral opening. It pools on Achilles’ shoulders, weighing him down as he attempts to reach the tortoise. His motions are proven futile. The race never begins, the race never ends. Space and time, infinitely divisible, root him to the loamy earth as termites claim his flesh.
Quivering stairways reach
Towards Zeno’s stagnant arrow,
Tenderly plucked from the celestial sphere’s