The first hour afterwards

Early morning slips into the postcard

stillness of the future

these are the days

that drop out of the ever changing sunset

you can almost smell the neighborhood in flames

hairless hats scattered in the park

the butterfly's ballet has been sold to its shadow

by the angry skies that follow

death in the very next breath

sleepy demons rise out of our dreams

now the commercials look silly

the property lines and

plenty of space are going to bed in a storm of

vacancy

we make a cameo appearance

before it disappears

gardeners decorate the ruins

with abandoned machines

human remains smoke

in the emptiness that was waiting in vain

for the green phantom

and the madmen

who are selling big red flowers

I join forces

with a watchful mantis that

cocks its head in its coffin

this is the first hour afterwards

this is the sound of the planes

screaming over the living

seconds away

the buildings want to burst their seams

with a laughter that tumbles out of rubble

the original valley of the shadow is remade

under new flags

there were good reasons

of course

no one deserves this world

this bodyscape on the lawn

this numbered day in dead furs

thinks to itself

*