In your fingerprints
flotillas and femmes
a conspiracy of crushed colors
good intentions
dry blood. You rinse
the pigment from your skin
attempt a return
to this corner lot
where the sky is breaking
the stems of flowers
crackle like bleached bones
the sun leaks
and birds hide
in the shelter of one almost
tree, here, it is morning.

From a pitched roof
2 gulls keep watch
over the chainlink fences
sleeping guns
pale roses.
You notice the light on your feet
remember the drone of endless helicopters
think of your housemate's bruises
from a beating down the street.
You hear violins and trash trucks
smashed glass and bacon frying --
you wonder about the shape of peace.
Gulls depart. You notice the violence settling
in the creases of your skin
almost invisible
like the fine dust of late summer
that sticks to everything.