Falling

The body is on the pavement like pigeon shit,

splat against the concrete,

the blood pattern tight and clean

in a circle where the heart used to be,

now just empty space where a bullet

thought it would look for love.

 

On rainy days children jump in puddles

like these, the red wine their parents

drank at dinner splattered convincingly

across their chests,

stains growing across

the veins in their neck

 

until they too are flat on the pavement

like half-dried pigeon shit.

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