— a dissolving poem
It is the morning after —
the wildest dream imaginable
is still sleeping warm
and pre-industrial.
The curtain cups
a negligible breeze.
Schedules shake out
as blues and grays
... below in the street a man is juggling
three clubs.
I look out
catching then releasing his focused sorrow.
One specific bird song repeats.
The newspaper car turns left.
Over the hill onto which the newspaper car's bionic arm has stitched it
there is the absence of order, nothing — emptiness.
It is the last subdivision before the abyss,
I am now a warm red beverage and the houses are cardboard.
When these acoustic kids get paid they invariably amplify
and become a perfect silk-like rose.
The kind of rose overlooked on a box of chocolates
in different weather, before the Cupid came.
It makes perfect sense that even your dreams are asleep here:
the juggler, the one bird, and these big hurried stacks of jealous words.
–Kim Webb, Hamtramck
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