the Nature of bombs

tucked themselves into egos flattened people

turned themselves into seamless walls

a spread sheet of Percentages

a nervous chicken in a century box

Black and claustrophobic

each century Contained cages

in the garden words that should never

have been thought i remember nothing

only the Roses’ bloated faces

drafts between words

emerge larger than factories’ eyes

i lay myself out performing extinction and art

my body is larger and more rotten

than the roses larger than the earth

sculpted from an acre of dust

art is bored and Dying

there is nothing more to do

with Instinct and flickering birds

sleeping as a tapestry Collapsed from the wind

owing its brilliance to a yellow butterfly

A face of memory opens little Births

The sky does not decide it self

filling up with petals so do the daughters