The other end of text

Theory hurts brain. Must do something else. Must stop talking like HAL.
I submitted to some online poetry journals from WebDelSol (of which MidAmerican Review and other print journals are also a part) this weekend. There really seems to be a market now for prose poetry/flash fiction, and the more I do it, the more I like it. Here's one of the "new" ones I'm working on. Actually, it's a revision....And it's somewhere right between prose poetry and flash fiction, which is nice. It's, as the Mid American Review says, "A fineline" between pp and ff.
Truce

Each of them stands and her “because” falters, not with a long reach extended by the wrong side, but with daylight’s measure of their errors. Something like peace comes of this, and their wings grow out, erections carping freshly at half-joking door slams. They are home, still not looking directly at each other (their eyes are too dilated). Each of them stands: It has passed. The scent of Brazil refills this mean space and lets out a few survivors too directly, coated by capes of postwar elation.
Diesel engines announcing into the garage tell the band of merry men their ass is his . He pines over something, grins, begins a rate for them to follow, a pace to lead them to their background. In an ass-cold moment, his demeanor slips, he sits, indeed has a sailor’s sigh, shows her the mark of the tube at his wrist. The Because and the But fall to a robot’s ears, crisply ebonite in the parking lot. You (or I) rake a needle through the layer, where a tine scrapes all the crust off his heart. Shake hands and twist.

And another
Compromise

I drowned him soundly up there, while occupied with the muddled lovers and/or their photographs; she was riddling out the girls who believe on it, having an hour to doctor her quirks.
One of us, (opening our eyes, finally concerned,) sure of a movement from empty plots cooling, tips and paints boldly on the closed bowl what was a parish of enthusiastic smiles once, and makes neat little masters of them, all for me.
My numbness was shaken as you smiled. I would have had you care, as you worked out our next inference in notes. Once spotted, he was banged up, used, murmured about, his status stopped at the shoulders and ransomed.

Who the hell knows where this is going?
Even to the edge of doom where metaphors are. Even to call and demand "Bloom!" to the flowers at the altar splayed velvet there. Even to step lightly, to spew nightly the effects of the sun. Even to jump in the mud where melted snow was.
Inevetiably involves how the debate makes feeble mother's fears zenith. Even to bow low with the years, obsession, choice, and service is to hold yourself away from June--abdominals straining--and not mention wars, or, moreover, anything natural or permanent. Have we a thousand mesas to skirt? Have we money trees on the island?