Torn about and washed by turbine heaven,
We are flipped snaps,
Vignettes someone watches.
Newspapers whip about our ankles,
Trying to tear us.
Consonants claw us; vowels violate us.
The late hour cloud our response, blue to black.
Just this once let’s not talk. And,
May sparkling stars embrace us with tender years.
These predictable cries ring the mountains.
Help me hold them back. For whether it is dirt in your face or another wrenched from the womb is unimportant,