shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Edytta Wojnar


The Scream

Edvard Munch

I imagine there was nothing but the scream
that took landscapes apart in perfectly round cries

too many things have happened
somewhere on the way to worship

so many open chests with hearts
nowhere to go but to spiral into hate

sombreros blown from heads swirl like alien objects
like black bullets against the red sky

80 miles South of the US border
skulls like yesterday's moon lie in sand alongside highways

bodies pile up like nameless stars
gathering in constellations every night