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

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