Mortal Prose

The sibilant wind blows over frosted shingles of cracked porcelain. Passed chain link a fissured road wends the dry creek of my mind; downtown the stars are charted at a four-way stop of plywood windows, oxidized copper's turquoise matte. The poetry of rolled metal wheezes mortal prose among tall weeds, the crumbling concrete of promises. I see it all from my window as if in trance, a séance with the clock ticking lifetimes of stanzas in one minute as a For Sale sign clanks its chant on the fence. Memory's verses were shipped ahead, away from draped shadows of bloodless marquees. Sweeping remnant words is like herding tears found in shards of a broken tea cup. A hiatus appeared in life's narrative, but syllables in the tome are my amulets. 2/21/19