in a sky full of fire? When did
the pain turn to desire? It rains
splinters in the yard. Every broken
shard is sharpened with the axe,

and thrown back, poking holes
in their stories. They trumpet, the morning
glories in bright blue, climbing on
a twisted vine. Cutting their twine with

a searing hue in burgundy
till they bleed out their petal heads
jerkily. Smirking and mounting the steed,
riding off after planting the seed!