The windows drown the world
like glass mothers
who know the weight of death,
shutting out sounds,
slitting the red throats of sirens
as they flash down the interstate
into the smoke stacks
on the outskirts of this town.
This town is a promise
whispered in cold brick,
written in rivers,
founded in forests,
fancied on starlight,
broken by mute mouths.
In this town
there is still a sole
leaf pinched, desperate
on the last limb
of the last limb
of a gray thunderbolt
glazed with bark
and the livid frost
of night without company.
In this town,
where I was born,
and where I’ve grown –
like a cripple
on a balance beam –
crows solemnize
(in year-round tradition)
the ebon declension
of night’s arrival.
In this town
sunlight falls
on granite names
engraved in markers
on blue graveyards
while shadows shine
down columned halls
down candle-lit
clad alter-wings.
In this fucking town
silk children chase
deep dreams deep
down silver ladders
of frigid railroad, down
tunnels or gun barrels,
holding their last breath
to make a wish
paned in starlight
or broken glass.
In this hell
I call home,
in this fucking town,
there’s a lie
poured in violet
graffiti, bled in chalk
outlines, pinned
to city hall,
stamped: black
and white and true –
unflinching
on stark headlines,
bred in classroom
voices, reverberating
from steal bars
and prison cries
into frail fingers
begging for change
in the bitter wind
that lifts up,
that rises above,
that overcomes
the billowing red
the whispering white,
and the swimming blue
of this town.