Growth,

I tasted you, just,

On the back of my throat

Rich feeling of your presence

Washed across me,

Fluid.

 

Storks Yellowed legs

Patted straw

Upon chimney tops

Of

Childhood dreams

Of

Child

 

Crimson rimmed ruin

Passed slowly

Through a pause of thought

At what juncture

Does it collapse.

 

Wings lift, white feather

tipped in grime

drift across

Train tracks

leaving forests of

long toms

behind

 

Roof tops crumble

Brittle stick house,

would never be home,

I

Think on you

And I blow

My own

home down.