The dogs are long gone.
The children of catastrophe
flick their knives at the sun,
shuffling from ruin to ruin
in their parents’ heavy boots,
stepping over the skeletons
of buildings and hummingbirds.
The children of catastrophe whet
their blades on barren slates.
They shave their heads
and argue about the history
of chandeliers and satellites.
The frogs at the water’s edge
expand into dumb balloons.
Hunted by an army of toothless men,
the children scramble toward the sound
of one dog barking at the edge of the world.
They sleep in shifts,
cursing moonlight.
We scavenge the stillness
between bullet and bone.
In our dreams,
the horizon binds us
with a blinding flash—
your hand in mine,
our cells married
and incandescent:
each to each,
ash to ash.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
The dogs are long gone.
The children of catastrophe
flick their knives at the sun,
shuffling from ruin to ruin
in their parents’ heavy boots,
stepping over the skeletons
of buildings and hummingbirds.
The children of catastrophe whet
their blades on barren slates.
They shave their heads
and argue about the history
of chandeliers and satellites.
The frogs at the water’s edge
expand into dumb balloons.
Hunted by an army of toothless men,
the children scramble toward the sound
of one dog barking at the edge of the world.
They sleep in shifts,
cursing moonlight.
We scavenge the stillness
between bullet and bone.
In our dreams,
the horizon binds us
with a blinding flash—
your hand in mine,
our cells married
and incandescent:
each to each,
ash to ash.
