Whitelash

Fearsome historical angel,
you grasp at souls through every
transparency: bread that crumbles

in brown paper sacks, water
that runs through ancient pipes
to deliver its rust-tainted gift.

Clouds of gunpowder drift
through streets where the armless
burn effigies and raise their fists.

High in the hills, asterisks fall
from your frozen webs as though
we could pay wages with them.

There is so much you don’t know,
you whisper. You’re telling me,
I say. You’re telling me.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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