Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

trays

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?

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