it was the first accident

:red-winged alcohol smells like burning pine

the day after. cool to the touch

,an accident of firsts. no traffic only

naked children running after a three-legged dog

bearing abcessed teeth and balloons filled

with raisins. they shook while they ran

, running murder the first accident

murder of running glass on the sidewalk. sunlight sounds like

canastas and theĀ river, the embankment slapped

by the wounds. too, the other accidents were

blood and summer innocuous in repetition

three passengers later.

it was the second accident

:a half-burnt offering wrapped in deli paper

through which the oils from the meat smeared her

hand in her pocket. rockets behind them stopped

anything before it began, and she almost did

not hear when he said: “if I’m going to write anything

,it’ll probably be poetry. I hope it makes you cry.”

she smiled at the place he could not see and responded

,” it better be about blood and the loss of teeth, hope

and broken bodies.”

some small hell, then. where musicians are mice

,the language of wind across an open flame

covers the night

where is the last moment.


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