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Frank Corbett Feb 2013
Hundreds of those small black birds
Soaring above a golden hill
Grass dead, as they thought they were,
Laying there watching
No sound
Until the roaring
Overhead the screams
The flapping of the wings
Forcing the air once more into their lungs
Postponing yet another collapse
and they faced the breeze renewed.
Frank Corbett Feb 2013
They are all the same
Standing in formation
Eggs in a carton
Hatching into a sunlit world,
Ready to attack life,
The way they have always attacked.
To serve and be served,
by the vast tracts of land
Of which we are so needful,
Beaks and talons,
furrowing unmoved soil
and red crests offering solace in their blood red crimson.

The shell is warm.
Too warm for me to leave,
to leave these molecules,
the iotas of material floating,
How could I?
I know it,
that I would explode from the shell,
and grab the fox by his throat,
and force my talons into his gullet,
and despite myself,
I am terrified of life.
Frank Corbett Feb 2013
The fabric is atmosphere
and popcorn ceiling stars
no matter the time of day
gazing at stars
so far away.
Frank Corbett Feb 2013
Orange cones of light,
Dotting the cityscape
Like pillars of broken glass
Showing us what we dare not look at.
I'm sorry I left you.
I can't promise it won't happen again.
Frank Corbett Jan 2013
Brown hair blue eyes awakes from a brief slumber,
respite isn't found in the black curtain of sleep,
not in the office chair at a desk,
respite is not,
respite cannot,
As he trudges across the mess on the floor,
cutting his soles open on the trash accumulating over the years,
the metal and plastic,
cold iron of promises and betrayals when he said he'd grow a thicker skin,
the paper-cuts of childrens' cards as a breeze kicks them up,
it's December and the window's open,
it's freezing in here.
Close the window,
stopping the draft,
he gets changed in front of an open window,
exposing himself,
luckily nobody notices.

Freezing air shatters the warm membrane of his lungs,
they contract and shudder,
and don't expand again,
the morning ritual is painless but uncomfortable,
ignored until it goes away,
instead of dealing with it,
because it's easier,
focusing on breathing,
and driving,
than acknowledging the weakness.

This is lumbering,
shambling when it should be gliding,
when it should be upright,
instead laid out on this stretcher,
they're making way,
just hoping it'll be over soon,
out of sight,
out of mind,
as it crashes through the hallway,
next to them,
a disaster stuck in their minds,
dead to the world outside the hospital window.
Frank Corbett Jan 2013
The glass is flying too quickly,
time is shuddering like a demolished foundation,
and I can feel snapping in my chest,
like the air in my knuckles,
but like nails in my heart,
it doesn't even hurt,
as I fly through the air,
into the newspaper stand,
2x4's splintering in my wake,
as I collapse alongside the brick wall,
completely and utterly surprised,
I swallow my teeth,
and walk.
Frank Corbett Jan 2013
I can see everything from up here,
watching you against the freckled backdrop,
that marble I made home,
that I shot across the sand,
into parts unknown,
a lost toy under the sofa,
sitting there stationary,
existing just fine without me,
until the day I found you again,
the way you moved so quickly,
the way the light hit you,
despite the scratches and stains,
even now you look brand new,
like the day we met,
petrifying and infinite,
like a planet,
rolling across a hardwood floor.
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