My grey window frames

a new ad each week.  Below,

sleep-walkers people our streets

lovers of live ember


Mother pressed in my hand,

so I remember

to cry for my brothers,

bleeding in the gutter.


Is it too late to pull

shards of shrapnel from

shocked faces? Shhh—

wash away these pieces.


A siren wailed across

cracked glassy pavement

with undissolved fingernails

and cloudy eyes, gutted like


fish; but even AK47s sigh,

breathe holes into dry earth,

drip drip like stars

falling flecks of memory


… as by some miracle,

sunlight wakes me to find

the same street swept clean,

teeming with life.


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