THE COLOR OF SOUND IN THE CITY
Gray down on the rooftops,
pock marked and feckle.
The streets, store glass,
white automobiles.
Black heads and blemishes,
acne scabbed and oozing.
The train crossing,
pigeons on the platform,
garbage cans. Splinters,
tears, cracks and holes.
Silence is afterbirth.
Downed wires, downed trees,
a bird's nest and three spilled eggs.
Someone left breathing.
Feeding Time -- David Seibold
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