the flies buzz all around.
the city, a giant carcass, is covered in
a thick, black-blue cloud of them
bruising the sky like an accident.
my mother saw the twin towers fall from the front porch
where she Cassandra-ed my first love into ruin
not knowing that from that day forward
i'd chase Trojan horses in search of someone like you
there is a breadcrumb trail of trash
tracking my footprints back where we planted a white flag
i try to be neat with the mouths that i feed
but the flies still manage to find me
and when i dream, it's like years never passed
like these small towns were all snacks
to the taste of our laughter when
in fact i'm much wiser than i was — yet,
i don't like to think we were an accident
and after all
why would the flies hover
over something that didn't use to breathe?