4/30

What about blood in the sand?
It puddles between the legs of a man,
flowing around like water.

There are teeth and bones and chunks
of skin tossed about in unsuspecting bedrooms,
linens balled up in the corner.

Then, grief becoming realized,
a cello sonata resting on crimson hands turned skyward -
desperate and aching for breath.

And me, pouring a glass of milk.