Living in Theory
There is something to the age of smashing screens,
some errant, bitter clang of steel ash floating
away as updraft scotch mint wax wrapping,
up to streaming frozen amber cloud.
It is a hypocrite's oath, mouthing hymnal
book but breathing, breathing in sulfer tones, sacrilege
pilfering the smash-grab coin rotation
that brines a sallow sea-green drown.
Glass plates fixture upon clock-wall ticking,
not faces of hardened men, ready for
revolution's plunder; but that of babes,
flickering solemn in gas lamp silhouette.