Migration
by Steve Klepetar


The temple had been set on fire
and the moment of destruction arrived.
We sang out, hungry as cats, we bristled
and sent our voices out into windless
night. Gangs of stars hung like swollen
grapes on twisted vines of flame.
Never had angels visited such magnificent
wells. Water twisted down every broken
street. “Wake,” the trumpets shouted, “only
wake and face these brilliant flaws chiseled
into rock face and diamond walls.” Doctors
everywhere broke down, telephones
gathered at the edge of this great migration –
wings and spirit, voices determined to survive.






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