house became instant urn
drowned by brix and fire
and killed by genocide deniers
so spake the winning sirens
the sirens of hundreds of
mortar-laden poetic goodbyes
for untouched cloudlings
of vibrating sidewalks
and coffinated sponged parks
to plant no more orphans
and untreed olive forests for a keffiyeh to sprout
before the world texts through more hostile indifference
and is bored by Minnesota gossip.
my winged ears caught the shuffle scratch of chair legs
on non-profit floor
of bodies masquerading their nice escape
the screeching quiet
daunting to kowtow out of an open mic
i knew before the building collapsed,
i didn’t need , really,
an audience.
Xennial Poetry Notes: Pilot of Oumuamua 