Every suburb needs a callous-
fingered harpist to bleed heaven
from her hands into her driveway,

to raindrop angels into puddles
after storms of indifference.
Imagine: lawns grow in

the pizzicato of days first plucked,
then plodding. Homes, once full
of promise, rot– bricks erode

to the sharp of strings
slowly falling from the sky.

(originally published in Hedge Apple, Spring 2019)

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