Gent/rified

 

on stoops sirens sound silent   

as they ambulate the un-living

to turn brownstones into head-

stones: the lie within the lullaby

 

low caliber shells move in slow

motion through a neighborhood

night forgets its silhouette:

and all darkness dissipates

 

draping one more cracked pane

not like it was STILL – Still like

it was -- glass cutting your arm:

broken sashes become suspect

 

those intended become targets

or bull’s eye animations

“About face!” puts a dum-dum

bullet squarely in y/our back/

 

a ricochet skips its rebound

noise/less in an alley like brick

slathered in mortar, not a single

casing hits the ground, they make

 

no sound – an echo charred –  

to black because it was the

whites of their eyes that fired ...

​