The Roads Are Wet With Power

our death unfolds

into the air of

smoke of

waste of

time through damage

and skin and noise

the roads are wet with

power

the death of these brings

summer to the dead

lemons to the graves

of living pigs

on the radio

on the screen

behind the action

fear in a hand of smoke

my heart opened and bleeding

across your palm

and in that palm

lies sorrow

aching and dying

fear

I see your life leap up

from the bed

your heart

dying

on the

dirty

square of solitude, yours.

the green air is

home to moths

to blood inside

your

mouth

I sit here in

the

early morning

and die

bleeding.

you sleep and dream

of your wings

through

my death.