There Are Shadows Behind Everything

in the fugitive’s house

small hands open to catch the rain

bodies coil into fetal position

kite strings unravel


all the black and white photographs

are what they believe in    and not

the consequences of this bleary-eyed

blood soaked earth


that they are no longer lonely

is a talent worth having

a small happiness

a future gone liquid


its radiant pattern

pitch and rhythm

going    going