it sounds like the hiss of a viper,
green-brown in underbrush
by the lichen-riddled rocks,
a rumble in the distance, avalanche
of numbing snow, cicada chatter,
hail stitching corrugated
tin above an abandoned shed,
a child picks up clumps of dirt,
an empty snail shell, he puts it
to his ear and the gallop of death's
horses storming over the cliffs lulls
him to sleep.� Nobody's child,
belly swollen with hunger, flies
buzzing about his face, trying
to whisper in which direction
to turn to catch the last glimpse
of this impinged, bruised sky.
How the world surrenders to wet.
