Memorial Day

All that's left is the shroud the back wings. Roaches scurrying in the kitchen. There’s no greater threat than this time at hand. Drunken cackles from the street. Still damp from 4 AM rain. I missed the instructions for this part. The trap. The deflate of dream. Utopia was always supposed to be right at hand. Right and left. Any which way we’d make of it. Marine layer won’t budge for the rumble under our feet. Sky tears open in the north. Sirens on high. A small pool forms in the buckle of asphalt. In its gentle tremble the reflection of the grey white mass overhead with a perfect seam of blue. The rift where the dead speak how-tos.