sixteen staid children fled the mayhem in merciful chilling obscuring rain.
ran from fields to alleyways into black right angle backtracks.
down between dumpsters,
between porchlights and the gagged sounds of a family fight.
between flightless birds in tight corset cages.
between fathers.
down.
down between the stones and cracks in the pavement.

a cured spotlight crawls
across facets of flexing crystal
creak cracking
amethyst action.

one path forward, no path back.
one rusty traintrack.
rushing rails touching horizon,
clutching a bloody dinnerplate.
a family fight de-featured in the waxing starlight.
sub fatal scuffles
striking a match that bestows its sulfur flash
to brighten a room.
to melt the candle waxing into fingerprints beneath a table
flanked by four flimsy red checker walls
that are a fortress, an enchanted forest, and a field
etched with the black right angle backtracking trenches that amplify
or gag the gunshots or long pressure waves
carrying the silk tears to splash like a bouquet
of ragged roses
on a rocky cliff face.
on the uncovered windows
bleeding bulls eyes into the hostile potential.
pulling blows like a word of protection
for the baby wrens pushed from the nest
too early, crying for the approaching earth
flapping dreadfully featherless wings.

no more games.