Irony as weather.  A cement block, a pair of binoculars.  The stolen ropes of

heaven frayed like an old weightlifter's veins.  The next obstacle, the next. 

Cracked mannequin arms embrace us.

 

Failure becomes survival.  City streets burn like gonorrhea.  Ex-astronauts dye their best pants.  Mosquitoes bite mosquitoes.  And the desire to be useful again flickers like an old lighthouse.

 

The beautiful arc of a chainsaw.  Quiet's cut into paper dolls, then marched into microwaves.  Faith slices breakfast into little rooftops.  Without symmetry we break over and over again.