6d
at the ends, they clutch silver-silk straws,
sip from spoons of mercury — have you noticed?
how the broken walk the same as us,
hollow vessels crackling softly,
bits of themselves rattling like loose coins
in a beggar’s cup.
they leave trails —
grief, cigarette ash,
monday mornings that taste of iron and sleepless teeth,
sunrises pacing in their cages.
the clouds swallow them without whisper,
the wind retracts —
does not brush their sleeves,
does not call them home.
heavy air curdles in corners,
cold as the underside of stones.
i’ve watched them smile at empty coffers,
that smile — a smear of rouge on a corpse’s cheek,
so bright,
so unholy,
painted pain.
