Rusted wind chimes still like mountains.
So silent, I forget they’re even there.
A broken window in the house across
the street cracked slowly over time,
from the inside, by the ghosts wanting
desperately to escape.
Yards full of dandelions slowly mowed
over by kids with sticks decapitating them
like their ancestors did to people.
Stoned seventeen-year-olds drive
ice cream trucks, and grind the gears so
loud they drown out all the music.
A young girl kicks her sandals off
and leans her face close to a caterpillar
stepping lightly across the grass.
She slices it vertically, along a bright yellow
dash, across its back, with a razor blade
she stole from her father.
It bled for a while and it added to the pile
of things that she killed for the fun of it.
Teleporting Typewriter 