Baltimore

Smash the pots, then stomp the flowers- a dozen
tired and tawdry hours, in tens of lots,
all mine,
all ours.

Drink it eat it, grow in size, one man's
detritus burdens flies, a fly's conceit
over man's demise.

Death may be blue, in uniform- or maybe
not, this roiling storm, obscures what's true,
or truth,
in any form.