waking

here it is.in the morning watching the sky through a window.the night before like every night before.it's when the little dreams die.there's broken glass at our feet, guns in our hands.you cannot interrogate this field of broken soil and crusted snow.dying in the cold of night.it always does.they always do.found warmth through the day, clutching close to your skin.holding on.now night comes.stars are lost behind clouds.everything is silent and they crawl out and they die.sometimes slowly but usually it's quick like a haircut.and sprawled on the floor like the shells of beetles on summer concrete under a light.there's a concrete slab wall with thick paint and the light is shaded with bent tin.fluttering, they dance through the cone of light.morning in night.cracks in the cement and up against the sidewalk broken glass, small rocks, some tiny weeds.

alexander lyosha