SargeMcCluck

As a steeple on lips           I drift in metal churning against the white tablecloth           upon which all becomes stark and real For the choreography of spring clouds           has stumbled backward and the contours of my face           on rushing, black glass are dispersed in to liquid vibrations           amongst flurries of melting stars The pulse of iron rails           sustains, resonating working to insure the parts of my brain           more prone to wonder           that the world will carry on without my looking up                          . . . Home calls as dots of caramel rust           blinking at the edge

Smothered in stone and granite and iron; extinguished in memories of a postcard pasture or a vision more appealing, little is said of the brass marblings of growth between cracks; of thin, mustard blades and gleaming, rose-brown flesh, clawing upward at some primordial promise of sunlight, attempting to live

Consider for a moment the iron forearms of a city that yawned two-hundred years prior, with a belch of black fire Hanging, bent statics, dotting clouded skyline as a silent monument to unfulfilled promises of rekindling England’s empty belly Surely, soon, cranes will be needed to take down the dead cranes and vapid, we’ll watch, as rusted knuckles turn against the sky and stop