Blank Curse

Harm is the arm
that turns the clock
around. 

Time chimes with 
the slime of 
a million
mason jars

damp and
insufficiently ajar
in the cupboard of
the collective 
mind.

Find in these vengeances
pledges and promises
expectations and armistices
promptly designed
to silence every peace.

Slow flowers
are not like
these towers.

The petals peddle
color for no fee
delight with a glide
of glee

and thus spell
a word incompatible
with language

and bird a song
incommensurate
with the mind-bent pain
of people.