Untitled #5

Your sisters are gypsies.
I race down the stairs,
down to the subway
as they chase me with their knives
looking for a cop or a priest
whomever will save me
from their screaming facing.
They bury their secrets
in the hollow of a tree
in my backyard, fresh cut
burial plot, squirreled away
alongside their money.
Their greedy fingers
slide along with the earthworms
pointing accusations of thievery.
The angels bury themselves
in their wings and sleep.
My dreams are flashing
red moons and winding stars
against the pale night
in the underground
concrete meadow. Iron trains
run past holding up skirts
and flashing legs in purple
stockings. Your sisters
catch up and pass me red wine
I drink long because I am thirsty
and my life is frozen
at the bottom of the cup.
They laugh and they laugh
as I watch their red lips and
their white teeth come closer.
No one is left inside of us.


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