by Thad DeVassie

It’s what the walls spoke, reverberating the space until it landed upon me. I didn’t believe it. I searched the barren space for liars, culprits, the complicit. I pulled a nail from its nail hole where no frame and nothing hung in its balance. I watched as the wall from which it came collapsed into rubble. A clock lay on the floor, out of time with All Time Is Loss etched beneath protective glass, between unmoved hands. I stepped over lost time, rubble, knowing the way out was through, for which a path had been made.