Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.


he never strays far from that storm drain
keeps a suitcase there, and inside it
seven trays

delicate gossamer pinned with a
precision that makes god look sloppy
he gives them names,
that sound vaguely latin
knowing that his grandfather used to

he’s saving them, wings and stem
crouches in the storm drain, flashlight late at night
searching for himself in those pinned insects –
he’s running fingers against their paper-thin flight,
asking: how do you do it?
manage to be so thin and fragile,
but still fly?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s