the steps

by

Alejandro Lalinde

it was the late
dying sun that sprung
these vultures’ wings aloud & spread,
thickly
over the thin city haze.

a soft afternoon orange
briefly filters in
& bleeds. slowly
a trickle down
our horizon: as circles of these winged guards
swept-in

blinding.
thrashing.
gawking down—to see—if we moved.

if we breathed.

if we were alive.

they were like the soldiers
at the top
of the steps
with shoulders brazened back, taut-strapped belts—
constricting all chambered blood from clottedveins.
vacanthearts
of
channeled grit
&
purehate.

I stand
between them
& the light,
as long shadows mold,
still fill my gaze
of long rifles cradled in their arms: cold.black.cocked.
molted.steel
at the triggerease of their fingertips, &

I
never
saw their eyes
that shed pureblackpupils
of a gripping
thousand yard stare
of hundreds live
yet
undead.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Manhatten street and Global Warming
by: Chan Mongol
from: Jamaica, NY, US

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