Come when the street is
silent
and there is no witness.
Park your vans.
Raise your ladders.
Bring out the cans
of white paint.
Blast your blizzard
over me. That’s right.
Obliterate my wings.
My black-brush words.
My martyrdom. That’s right.
You did it before
with bullets and guns.
My mother takes a knife.
Scratches at my burial.
Turns my shroud to dust
until an eye emerges,
radiant, a skylight in the
wall.
More of my poetry
can be read on http://www.odyssey.com,
http://www.chanticleer-press.com/, http://www.vivimusmag.com/poetry.html
