Blades

Morning sunlight bites through the blinds,
a half eaten cinnamon roll remains on a tray
by the stove in the kitchen.
Three foot razor blades make sparks
and blood sprays from where they cut
like the pressure built up from shaking
a soda.They do not understand what they
have done to each other but they will
when the moon arrives and paces towards
the day in disappointment.
They pull each other out of the water
and the shoreline is covered in empty
lobster shells bleached white by the light
both reflected and direct.
There is a necessary lack of respect from
the youngest among us like the weeds
from the depths of the flower bed that
grow around their competition by sensing
the gaps in the coverage above them.