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Stealing cannonballs. hungry like cats with dead eyes. hard as tacks, steel, harder, maybe. Stealing spectrums of sound with cupped hands. Pictures taken of bridges breaking, not burning, never burning. Stealing avalanche dreams from my own small self, prairie rain extinguishing the sinister sparks I learned to look for out my own back door. Packing lunches for trips I imagined but never took. Books I still can’t read. Stealing sentences from songs and stories and psalms and suicide notes. Learning to like the way my own mouth mimics your panting breaths. Your miracle muffled mania. Stealing clocks so no one knows when it’s time to go. Jealous of the iodine sting my mother used to bring. Fast moving ships on the skyline. Old signs on old beaches where we still swim in new skin. Stealing headaches and clever slogans to sell a new way out of here. Every buck a new battle with bereaving scenes I’m leaving. Artificial art and artifice, avarice, blue bomb shells on black sand ampersands. Stealing early afternoons, grass stains, cherry tree bark, torn gloves. Watching for rain drops, signs of spring. All the weapons we need buried in our sleeves. hungry like hearts that pump too hard. drastic plastic people furrowing their faces as they hurry off to important places. Stealing bridges, matches, diaries. Exploding the fireworks of discovering the uncovering. Left with petty theft.
