The rose pile,
a butchered St. Valentine’s Massacre--
I wonder where the color went.
If I die,
will I only see black and white?
dirtied air stings my eyes
and considerations dissipate.
There are certain nights
I can only think in terms of
predator and prey,
but whatever my echoes,
time tuts and turns he back on me.
The newspaper hush
kept my devastation quieted.
Somehow it always comes back to
faces in the crowds,
roots gasping up from the dirt,
a body count in the bustling streets.
Sometimes my eye hooks itself to a certain face
and drives truth through its temple
like a rusting stake.
I never touched a skeletal basement
nor brushed my fingers to its razored walls,
but the screams reverberate just the same
until all suffering becomes white noise--
fruit blossoms from these wounds,
these peaches shedding blood or dripping juices.
I think about
the wood splinter in the grayscale mechanism,
how fascist teeth gnaw the boulevards.
I see a sister,