Monochrome

We slept long and hard, our feet
to the moon, flat-footed and shaping
the song — that small air balloon.

Joy’s sounding. Cannons in
a cave. The fortunate
caught looking while gunning

the mother right out of
our skies. There goes the maker,
the wren and the garden. 

Black currants torn
from the tree in the name
of fungus and disease.

Pen your name on the tags
of beloved. Alongside society,
symmetry suffocates the wind.