Filling Brick Hats
The city's been up all night
abraded, restless on her stucco sheets,
clockwork cogs whirring and grinding
the chaff along with the wheat.
Just a little thing fails,
the tooth loosens itself in the
splitting splayed hole
and the buckle unbuckles.
The crack starts small,
pencil line of a fantasy disaster,
unseen in an ignorance
that crumples the bridge.
Important in her concrete suit,
the city wakes up breathing,
forever one breath away
from not breathing.
Two tall hats higher than hills
detonate red in cyclopean explosion
filling with death instead of
water for horses.
If there is a place where
water can be dipped up in a hat,
there must be a place
for the horse to drink;
the city, the hat, the gesture,
the head it covers, hollow
as comfort, vengeance, the conceit
of a vacant control.
Posted for OneShootSunday at the inimitable OneStopPoetry
Photo by Scott WydenScott Wyden's website