RIOTS

As if all the birds rushed up in the air,

Fluttering;

Hoots, calls, cries.

I never knew such a monster even in child dreams.

It grows:

Glass smashed;

Stores shut;

Windows tight closed;

Dull, far-off murmurs of voices.

Blood —

The soft, sticky patter of falling drops in the silence.

Everything inundated.

Faces float off in a red dream.

Still the song of the sweet succulent patter.

Blood —

I think it oozes from my finger tips.

— Or maybe it drips from the brow of Jesus.