by Rachel Fenton
was grey, was the only thing making sense.
that had stood one hundred and forty years
a single second of the blackest day.
wore its own mourning to drop to its knees;
a finger. Belief: second to nature
go on swinging metal bats at empty
balls, neon bright, go flaring by sucking
their jet stream and behind, a row of cars,
play out the headlines on their radios.