Dec 7
 
 

Hazmat Modine Sonnet

 

The trumpet swung like a thousand year

tree in the rainy season, hot breath slumped

outside the tent revival, smoking, banging

some chick in stockings in the parking lot. 

 

Someone shook down the branches

for talking smack.  I didn’t know

air could snap that way, that you could

pack heat in raindrops and blast it

clean through someone’s head, ear

 

to ear, without leaving a mark. 

Something cracks.  The sky breaks dark.