That someone made this their home:
glint of blade, peeled back
skin, all the pigs but one growing restless
because no one’s taught them terrified
or necessity or how to keep a whole town
fed
& in the eyes of the dead blowflies nurture their young without lesson
or history book, just the world’s exquisite grammar
that comes with the territory of shutting up & living, neither
beautiful nor ugly, just the keep-on
of steel tracks cutting fields into properties, all of which we’ll own someday;
the small hands of sunflowers, their windless sway,
warming metal,
a new generation on its way to burn & build,
the bray of another train making windows in the air.
