Something is happening on the earth.
In Hindsight it will be clear, or more unclear
with added distance. The maroon shade between the
buildings, the emerald cement, the charcoal windows.
A Poem — Getting closer now. With each day, each breath I suppose. The symphony must go on, until the lights bleed through this fissured sept. Getting closer. Greyed hued bones, and the dirt and soil burning up its purpose. A purpose that no one knows. Getting closer still. Hot breath and the…
The morning wakes the heart
And the heart, awake through the night
presses against the ribs
stoically, spreading its rhythm.
Your DNA remembers harder nights,
so unlike these nights,
where fangs pray…