Trebuchet | Jay M Mower

  • Krysia Jopek
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Most Mondays, I’m up more or less sane,
as your voice, a viol through my pores, wafts
from its safe place, a cup of tea and jellyroll.
You note sea-salt shaken violence and horrors 
of hateful hours blast our country’s wardrobe.

Your story unfolds like I’m hit and run 
by an errant golf cart as winds howl
and trees creak.  Maybe the story 
won’t’ happen, like winged gargoyles
taking flight, but nevertheless, I tremble.

I only wish fireflies could tango with stars
and we would waltz like snowflakes,
but I hear the swish of a scythe cutting wheat
below Van Gogh’s crows, see train wheels
screeching to nil like holiday sparklers.

Red glare of expressway taillights at night,
chains and bridges of cigarette ash flash
through my home security system.
Boulders thrust through my castle walls.
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