Leftover Windows and Their Chills

Originally written in March of this year. Much revised.

I wonder if the woman walking along finds love in her end.
There is a profit in it like with the pigs who police the laws of aesthetic.
Those who are nurturing discard thy artistry with bundles of wind hisses.

I wonder if the woman walking along fears her fear when it comes.
The trash of the hysterical. A race of ants to the door. The endless supply of
children left behind to rot as perished in an instant in this system of allowed lies.

Wondering. To be idiots, to be lied to, to be force into thinking.
To focus or write or think or remember—guns recoiling and shoving.
As you have fired so have they. Their bullet is a thousand being burned.

I think of the ritual sacrifices on Mayan monuments and all the fierce lovers,
and the Aztecs of yellowed teething and hunger, propped up like giant snakes.
Syringes of the scaled and horrifying embargoes mandated by grueling fatsos.

Snot is running thick down the face and is to be crusted over through the breeze.
It is a love that is concrete and can be heard with the smack of our boots on curbs.