by M.N. O'Brien
The cracked staircase
drips down the window
echoing in puddles, rippling through
a reflection of The Blue Boy. I know nothing,
not even Socrates or my mother's migraines.
I must laugh at the serial
numbers when the season comes
to an end. From the start we know the sun
as green, and the trees are paying
homage, reaching up as plywood stairs.