To give a child an idea of scarlet or orange,
of sweet or bitter, I present the objects



In the spider-broke shack on the edge
of the metropolis,
in the song of the red canary,
city listens    city bends
its avenues to hear smitten
girls in floral nightgowns
sleeping next to coal-stove light.
Moth vibrations
drawing up their legs as
murder moves us through
autumn months. Wore
the wrong dress to the funeral
of the murdered girl.
Her body now swelling
into puberty underground.
Pear, petal, razor, torture.
Smell of lemon drops.
Her dread of blue balloons.

-Simone Muench (LOCUSPOINT)

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