The Fear of Dreaming Without the Devil

My voice quivers,
but my hands are as sharp
as arrows.
My voice becomes louder
in silence than when it speaks.
But to feel alive
I fall on pitchforks
because being black as ash
is never a nightmare
when the devil’s shadow
makes me bleed out
onto my own tongue.

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Teeter-Tottering on Leather Shoes

Breathe.
Open eyelids
onto closed fields.
Walk down city streets
between jackrabbit legs,
savoring the fresh air
when a hat is tipped to the sun.

The city is littered with wet leaves
that try to slip us up
until wings of a feather
dissolve into the furry air.

Ferociously towing up wrecked sidewalks,
pushed and pulled,
my heart lays silently still
onto a NYC corner street
trying to resuscitate a dead firefly.