woven red threads
in a blue plastic dawn.
it beads and rolls down the length
of a flower petal
to drip and catch on the pavement.
it extinguishes your cigarette
and stifles the words that pour
from your mouth
longing to replace the smoke
that's gone, and satisfy that
long, thin oral fixation.
tell your children not to walk
where the grass grabs their shoelaces,
breaking fingers, scraping knees,
and sleep softly in the woven red threads
that seem to fade in the shadows
of a bible black evening.
it's dull.
i'll show you a thing or two
about moonshine.