|Open to All||Kenneth Pobo|
Most of us are already dead. The rest can barely move. Ice forming on our wings. Snapdragons. Sedum. Clover. Flowers and bees. Always on the same luxury liner captained by Falling Temperatures.One of your poets asked, Death, where is thy sting? Our stingers turn to powder. Dark skies. A sudden freeze. These sting a whole population. A child takes us to show-and-tell. She holds a cemetery sixty eyes visit. Sixty blossoms.