New Dead Families

The clock built inside an apple tree says ten-thirteen p.m. but the clock built inside my face says ten-thirteen a.m. and the clock built inside my face always says ten-thirteen a.m. even when the girl takes the hands of the clock and turns them into the finches that grow from my arms. She turns the hands into a nice green hill where we lay buried with trees that are cornstalks and small men plant spent cigarettes into the ground and very soon the cigarettes can’t help but grow from our bones and children come from everywhere to smoke our bone cigarettes and their mothers warn them of all kinds of things. Hairy palms, an avalanche of dryer sheets, the flu and chocolate, anything to keep them from smoking our bone cigarettes but really the girl and I are flying and we’re always flying because what else is there to do but fly and fly and fly until there’s nowhere left to fly and the clouds have all collapsed then maybe we’ll go underground and swim through the dirt but probably we will eat boulders and play with all the lonely birds.