By: Royce Breslawski
Early snow falling from a clear blushed sky, doves, millions of them, cold and tumbling
as if called
Because I let these ghosts in my life, like
a drunk shepard passed out by the
open gate
Speeding down the backstreets,
leaving the town that broke me,
whole
Oxidized the ocean blue, leaves rusting into
dust, cutting through the
sunbeam
I want to hold you tightly like a
lover, or a
razor
Perspective isn’t tacit, you were just picking flowers, but to the daffodils it was a
massacre