Richard King Perkins II
An occlusion of moon jumps above rooftops
rearranging its features.
Some guy gives me the finger.
A medical building stands idly in front of me.
Passersby say nothing, studying the admixture of pavement.
She’s finally given up on Sunday dinners.
A desert articulates the intent of sunlight—
clarified by all it receives.
The oldest man seals his eyes with viscous sand.
Mom moves away from a tempered-glass window.
Dad turns his head to the side listening
for directions in a language he can understand
his disparate image tightening in the shadows
and looses them one by one
across the expanse of the world
while the clearest of moons kills them just as quickly
with stolen arrows of light.