Poets

Once a favorite conversation piece, now something more like a disease. A weathervane sings, a wind chime clangs.

Only three days and already I loathe this place, this milk-white morgue, this smiling slaughterhouse, where girls in straitjackets grow fat on pills, floating on pale clouds of Clozapine,

Do not speak of that dreadful day in Cypress when you stroked the green air and my charcoal silhouette blushed. Or of the black sky, how it swallowed