A poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
up
in the beak
of the kingfisher
there are no survivors
only a view,
panoramic death glide
with pharmaceuticals
many tiny overturned vials
in the next room
like collapsed buildings
the soot-faced still in shock
tired faulty lungs of
asbestos
and Ornette Coleman for ears,
what a notion –
monies in the couch cushions
like something forgotten
and fossilized
the spines of books broken
so men with pages for hearts
can ink-cry.