by Mitchell L.H. Douglas

the complex changes

names. The Flats,

The Villas, pretty gauze

for old wounds. As if

we forgot the bullets,

the children that fell, the angry

boyfriends living w/children

they do not love. I drive by

& try to remember when

pieces fit. A cloud

of cardinals explodes

from a snow drift, the splash

of my tires etching dirt

in the bank. All this flying,

impact, stain. Don’t tell me

you can’t see.

from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library

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