Busy Grass

After the flood the city became a place of quitude and alcoholism. Whatever it was that washed in left a stain. And that stain was not upon the pavements or buildings but upon the very souls of those runaways that occupieds its many tenements and row houses. It’s not uncommon to see faces at windows, bodies stood stock still in the street. Perhaps, as it was yesterday, a dove had, by means unknown, become embroiled in flame. Several hundred people looked on. Hours went by. And nothing was done about the dove. It did, however, finally, jerk, in a blackened and firey fashion, from the sky to fizz upon the busy grass.


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