by J.P. Colby


on these bright days of milk and
light causes life
to flash through thoughts like chalk
spread hard, sprawled
on pavement. overhead
a man hangs
paintings in a house of
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
they blow away the walls
with no regard for the
slaves and lions
held within the bowels.

Category: Poetry