A file of backpacks implodes into a thousand rolling pellets,
paper hands holding brains, where why who the hell; time to go
time to scream, hammer blast and barrel steam.

Sneakers cleated, crunch forward onto faces pressed
on a peppered linoleum mess, spit and tears mesh under
bleeding fountains, stiff still, slipping into doors which fall away.

Jimmy, like the sleeping night, awakes the sunrise, big starry smiles
clenched into red pig fat paper shells; poppa shotgun
cradled like a third arm, waving in a wild bounce of fire

Hello, remember me? I'm not very well, how are you? Remember me.


There is also a face, like the air: smeared through dust,
weighted but floating forward and never seen.

01/05/2006

Posted on 01/05/2006
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen