by J.P. Colby
on these bright days of milk and
violet
light causes life
to flash through thoughts like chalk
spread hard, sprawled
on pavement. overhead
a man hangs
paintings in a house of
white.
daisies
litter his mound
of clay. He builds a house
of clay. He perfumes his home
with oleander and sage.
He prepares a dinner
fit for the son of man.
He sails to his homeland
in a red mast ship with veneer of salt
while his cannons mark
their newest targets; cannons
don’t have hearts, i’ve never heard them
once complain about splinters
from carrying heavy timbers
because cannons never falter, never
break;
they blow away the walls
with no regard for the
slaves and lions
held within the bowels.
Category: Poetry