Dance of the Flyers

I could feel a pulse, I swear it was a pulse, loose grip tethering bodies in the old church while an
organ mulled hymns, psalms stuffed in the backs of       wooden pews, electricity rattling
around white sockets; three holes forming a mouth wide   as mine.

Jesus dripped blood above me, stained glass framed pollution and people on the street with
          papercups
of coins, dogs missing   ears and the domed roofs of green cabs.

The hall expanded,    sidewalk’s warmth once the congregation exits, centavos tossed into
fountains of pooled gravity as men sway in sky.

Ceaseless earth, Chapultepec binded by ceremonies of rain and rapture, arms pounding
          sheepskin
drums well into dusk; the veil cracks and shifts and stars show.


The Wind is Taking Pieces

       The impossibility of better sky
       above this red mound of dirt,
       the housing complex going up
       in the distance and I see
       steel beams grafted
       to their foundations,
       skeleton bones of drywall
       and plastics, collagen roofs
       that will collect rain
       and leaves in autumn.
       The families that move in
       won’t think of this pit
       of dust where I play.

       I pitch a rock into the air,
       lose it in the sun, imagine it
       soaring past stacks of brick
       and yellow digging machines,
       lingering above half-built
       houses and future lawns.
       It will fly forever. It will
       pass new construction along
       the coast.

       The workers depart and stillness
       clings to what remains; cigarette butts,
       brown bags, some shadow.
       My name carved
       permanence into the wet driveway, cement, a date,
       the corner of my thumb.
       Small lanterns give
       shape while I sleep


Beautiful Birthday Cake

       I swore the steps
       were made of marble;
       bits of leaves drifting
       sideways down
       the street, claws

       that feel through moss
       and feed upon the lichens.
       The world heaves beneath
       black construction paper.

       Cars pass the torpid cemetery.
       Headlights exhume epitaphs
       from pale slabs of stone.
       Their lights drift
       over me and the earth sways
       with its trees.

       My teeth become the visible
       bones of this body and shapes move
       down the obelisk,
       the back molar discolored
       by feed and smoke.
       The ground is ripe with fangs.

       From my pocket
       I pull a handful of candles
       which I slowly light
       and place into
       a patch of grass,

       tiny holes
       pitted in soil.

       The fires die before
       I bury them.

Lincoln Dunn
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