it's an old tale around town
that if you pierce the ground
with a needle just right
all the spirits will escape

no one really believes it
but the lore's dramatic flare gives a sense of community


at the bus stop  stand
twelve children with clay faces
day and night they stare straight ahead
and mumble the same word
over and over


Time passes by,
back bent and wretched
the dead grace of fallen kings

and eventually

the clay breaks,
the heads roll


a visiting CEO
stands to make a speech
but finds an emptiness
clawing at her throat

the clay breaks,

the silent tears
of the heart of a brooding teen
end their tenancy
and return to the ocean

a nightshift manager
swipes their card, closes the barbed gates,
fumbles rolling a cigarette
and draws in a sigh,
but the breath refuses to escape

the clay breaks,

a bluebird sings
but cannot recall the melody
petals clog the gutter
but the branches have long withered

people meet up and gather
to try to quell the empty pressure
they stand to chant the childrens' lost word
but everyone remembers it differently


time passes
routine remains
but there are waves in the waterways
and sometimes people on the surface streets
find themselves lost in the tide


time passes,

the dirt city convulses
under its silent weight

we gather a needle
and pierce the ground,


but nothing happens