some take the bus
(where an engine will pump
& scream through bones and
leather seats--torn, unfinished--
a thin cloud of warm
steam upward, into their spines,

narrow strips of black ice
slumped stiff and uninspired)
to the other side of this tall concrete
block

i know
this smooth hillside
i am its flowers in my tummy
when we stand in the way
of medicine
and a perfect state

when we press the time
buttons and break a screen
to cut into dying newspapers
with its glass

they leave smoke
i take
a breath
of dead air

the city is surreal it's hard to breathe
i feel

please why
when earth's few flowers are in bloom
do some choose to fly
(though remaining when their lives end
only little people)
above the pain and precious seconds

i sinksoar red and slow