Broken open by the song of sparrows,
winds that will not wait shred feathers, fish scales.
Sweat the street, cherry blossoms and the gutter grime.
Rumpled linen ripped and whipped pebbles,
asphalt that burns the begging storm, when will this begin?
Scattered shards of inane sound, salted blood and the guts
that were cleaned out for another purpose.
The pigeons pick at what remains of the sea.
© 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.