Grimbeau

Resent, trust’s wounded beast, lives deep, a profound

scar rifts its nook. Odd weather rouses it:

mood clouds,

orangeade, golden maned breeze, late day sun

knowing in corn grove by stile, John Lee Hooker,

and screams

outside the sky blue window last Friday.

Hurt’s old pals, bacillus and succubus,

they thrive on bad blood, consecrate murder,

and relish the thrill of momentary gore.

Quick, the black and white machete swoops,

You see silhouetted antennae;

open, indigo renaissance skies,

crowds flood through crooked pervious walls,

or melt away down through cleft gloss cobbles.