Fine Flu Journal Fine Flu Journal- june 2014 | Page 16

In Tired Streets
Nothing left to seep beneath your clothes,
no substance or bleeding on the ground.
These are the days of open hands
and wounds that bind us to desolate trees,
last days of song. The weddings are empty
now, bereft of wine and mirth, the dancers
all have hobbled home in broken shoes.
The instruments are gone, the floor ripped
out, even painted walls shiver and melt.
Nobody sane is left to gather crumpled paper
or fling the brightly colored rice. Hurry home
and listen to the wind, with netted fingers
gather up the rain. Your face betrays you:
nothing left to play with or defend.
Dogs run in tired streets, dawn busses groan
through blinking lights as if the immigrants
returned and all the planted seeds had drowned.

Jonah
I’ve been swallowed again by the giant mouth
of a baleen whale, swum a hundred yards
in the company of krill. Oh, I’ve been here before,
clinging to a shattered mast, watching the huge
stomach churn, waiting to be s