February
Swarming the roof fell caving and crawling the flames sunk shattered glass and popping like ice raw blue-handed moon those screams were for real relentless for real afternoon cravings for yellow pop-eyed birds:
Her little bird bones quivered
I thought I’d crack
down in the orange alley light
although
it was morning
the sun could not see us
although the kisses
the cold tiles, the brutal
were all so light.
Published in Umbrella Factory
