Paper flowers hid flies,
props floating over the dust.
Bombs X’d the precise spot
between now and nails.
Still humming, night air
played from a vent in the wall.
And down, dust-marked, surprise
made lips reach to the ground.
Under the quiet spoil, all the glamor
(the odor of flowers) scooped wraiths:
soft, beautiful strangers.
What do you think?