To open some window absent frame or sill
with the weight of mercurial arcs
from “beautiful” Tomahawk missiles
flitting through a cave-dark sky
just outside your bedroom halfway across the world
while the sash is stuck in rusted-out trundles
owing to those long, silent years of neglect
you push feverishly to no avail
then finally collapse onto the bed
and place the pillow over your head
there in this muddled breathing was learnt
takes a paintbrush more than bulging biceps
a fountain pen instead of a saw, hammer, and boards
smoother slide found only by the phantom bohemian
who resides amid tangled wires of suburbia
whore for snow-blind mispronunciations and falsely crossed legs
boulders wedged in everyone’s head and crotch
even the pillow has turned to rock
that’s when a few out of the horde
of crumbling marble statues
in this never-ending winter
bleed purple blood onto their frozen feet
until the sun is felt again above bruised nimbus clouds
only because fixed on the ground wingless
we have flown high
King Grossman is a poet, novelist, and non-violent revolutionary for sustainable community, who lives in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California with his wife, Lisa, pup, Bogart, and sun conure parrot, Sunny. Letters To Alice, his recently released novel, was a Finalist in the 2017 National Indie Best Awards for Literary Fiction, and was the Distinguished Favorite for Visionary Fiction in the 2017 Independent Press Awards. His poetry and short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Crack the Spine, Forge, Tiger’s Eye, Qwerty, DMQ Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Burningword, Ignatian, Licking River Review, and The Round.