Brooks Schmitt

Cages Rust at the Zoo

A beautiful half moon scab pointing at my knuckle, softly cracked
With the wrinkles of day grinding into night, flame into ash, cash
Passing hands, the cold handshake of the metal man, orangutans
Charging the air full of piney electricity between the slightest pass

We are engulfed in the womb of the world, and birth is coming