3in the playground.
a place for playing, now
a place for slaying
Feathers drenched in crowsweat
hung from the swing in the charring heat
Heavy beaks dragging swarthy carcasses
had avalanched to the bottom of the slide and lay in the dust
Broken black wings drooped in distorted irony from
the flying fox
The crows were self-slain
Breathed their last in the poison sky, let go
Gave up their ghosts
and became torpid torpedos
By curious coincidence
they landed;
languid
in the playground:
a place for laughter
a place for slaughter
a place for children's innocent breath
a place for a murder's violent death.