John Murphy



It slicks through the air faster
than morality or forgiveness,
rents the keen slice of flesh
and bone in an instant
to a shatter of blood and shards.
Forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder,
signed on the body, the holy trinity
that cannot stop that furrowing
of borders or the sharp eye
of the refugee looking for peace
along the hill’s silhouette.
They enclose with shade and spillage
Flesh and bone, he wobbles like jelly
on the end of a shovel.


Tuesday was a yellow flash,
Sunday, white smoke flowers
blossomed on the hillside.
The woman with the smiling
eyes a  kaleidoscope of  red
tumbling flesh and skin.
Grey clouds spread
shadows over flowers
in graveyards,
a child who held a buttercup
under her best friend’s chin
became a casualty.
The earth is still flat.
We will all fall off the edge.



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