Afternoon angels,
open-handed,
offer us
apocalypse apples
from the Nine Omens Orchard of Dread.

I awaken,
shaking my head.

There were birds
born of bullets,
packed in hospital ice,
their beaks, shrieking,
for lemon and life.

The rain ran in shivers
but found no swelled rivers.
I set the sails of the season.
Clouds.
Winds.
Shrouds.