Blackbirds
Remember, we broke in.
Always, we were breaking.
In basements, your hands
made acrylic faces
come alive; all over
the walls, half-dripping,
they silently hovered,
frozen in looks of red
smiles and pretty holes.
Downtown, sporadic
rain landed on fingertips,
dying there. Weather
sent voices to the strange
trees. Blackbirds sifted
through leaves,
skimming city branches,
winging it through
the muck of dreams.
Flipping one coin
high into the real
trees, you made wings
scatter. The sharp, dark
shapes surrounded us.
Remember the way
they flew -- the blurry
noise, and all at once,
the stunning scream.
C.A. MacConnell
