The Radio, A Fire in the Distance

seventy times seven
is a number too small to get me

any closer to niceties without
that hint of acid,

menstruating birds streak blood
on our cars, in traffic,
bloated by a balloon filled

with our impatient resignation,
like a helium that leaks out
of our deepest places
and inflates our chest with
frustration and a tension

in the bones of the man
sentenced to a final drug

the plumes of the horse,
a peacock’s extravagance

with just a touch of the rancor
we feel when someone puts a match
to our child’s
most precious plaything

the book we’d been saving
since we were kids

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: