explode in clusters, dead end dreams; make them
shock birds off the roofs of tall buildings, for
who knows who else Putin is dying to kill?
Let bird wings pummel heartbeats to a pulp,
their yellow beaks break west and east winds.
So what if their fuselage is blue? Melancholy
has never been the affair of a single federation.
Let anger rise and break out from the rib cage,
flailing arms and fisted hands at the world
at a time when a bird that falls from the sky
is a loss to all peoples of earth-sun-and-moon,
which must put in order the need to return home
to go and tear Mr. Triggerman apart, prepared
this time to breathe the phosphor of his doom
while aiming their beaks at the red, centre circle
where his heart was supposed to beat. And may
shells shatter all the clusters of his purposes.
Let shells make you share this poem