The atmosphere is breaking.

A puddle stands in the
middle of the street, reflecting
all our cracked
and rotting dreams.

Two bubbles, slick and oily.

Two men watch
         One building folds in on itself
         a collapsing ampersand,
         frog base

Its last breath is red brick dust.

Grey suit One. Yellow tie Two.
Both are balding, both are giving up.
between their feet, the road cracks
and flakes away
a cheap manicure
(an expensive earthquake).

First street    Empty
Favorite dies in a pile of onion skins.
We all peel
         away from ourselves
in oil
and tears.

Yesterday the clouds were in the sky.
         Today he’s on the ground, collecting
         the pieces of a pair of broken
         glasses.

Chips break
skin, but she scratched
out the corners of his lungs
already.
A puddle of cooling machine oil accepts
his blood.

Rogue brick escapes the tangles
of his tumbling house,
catches a man in the
inner
ear.

Fragile globe shatters, spewing grey across a fallen sky.
One bubble remains.

© 2023 Marisca Pichette