Hard Words 

 

After the sun shatters on the jagged edge of the city,

streetlamps and moon spill their milk on restless clouds,

air brushes screens, invisible rubber tires

howl faint in the smooth void of macadam,

and over still slant streets, old wood frame houses

with beaky roofs brood their swelling secrets.

 

With slow passion, unintelligible words saw

through oaken dark, until a voice breaks.

A door opens only to bite closed. 

An urgent drum of feet on wooden steps like hard breathing. 

A car door slams. The starter squeals and growls. 

The one left behind turns off the lamp. Nor does the shut cell

buzz forgiveness. Distance heightens like walls.

Alone with the silence of failure, the fever of blame rises again.