Rain scratches a surprise on the window
a gap to peer through, an old archers loop.
A pigeon coop, holding onto nothing
but freed birds, collects dust that turns pebbles
into gems and gems into lullabies.
The landscape, carved from marble, was cheapened
by deadwood making hermit homes that breed
disease. So cut my flesh straight from my bones
until the white shines an ivory clear
as day, shining like the armour meant hope.
Sun strokes our skin at near midday. Terrors
no longer trouble our sleep, as daybreak
puts on a brave face and some cheap perfume
attracting what attention she expects
and leaving her smile on the pavement.
The horizon promises rain as night
Draws question marks on our bruised skin and laughs
Like an animal when the day falls flat
And buries its dead where they once called home
Thinking that daylight outstayed its welcome
The dusk leaves. War paint tattooed to our skin
like off key scales, while chewed tobacco
turns to glue. Still, the henna never dries
the way the street seller tells us. It should
reveal nothing but peeling wallpaper.