Where the edges of homes run together
an incision of alley just wide enough
for bodies to pass without scraping
the paint off the bricks. A flowerless
plot of raised earth meant for greener
things. If those are strays praying wildly
with their teeth, it’s not to the moon.
I don’t think we’d recognize that god
anymore. The sky’s strung with LED
lights, held together by cords we un-
plug to bring us closer to night.
In other rooms, men & women &
children & love being made as
efficiently as possible before
limbs untangle to fists. Shattered
dishes. Ghosts waiting to be born.
From other rooms, the delicate scent
of cardamom & patience. Of someday.
& such a splendid contrast of flags
Duct taped to every window
that seals up the cracks & helps
keep most of our heat inside.