The dirigible breaks into halves against the oak bark after two hundred silent feet. Twice today I have recounted it, my tongue clicking, an adding machine as I tick off the figures that swallowed boys. Five in an $80,000 two-door. It flew a mile and change. Then the air, borne into the late before morning.
Girls and their tears self-consciously abandon vanity and honor the memory of mouth and heat with bare faces, covered bodies. All in sweatshirts and ponytails. Those with bad eyes wear glasses. The flames of short candles reflected on smooth straightened teeth. So without stain. Near clear, near blue.
Syndicated portraits, and the photographer asks each to wipe the hair from the eyes. Five faces: smug or tired. All I know. Like students shot in their classrooms, who from the moment of their bleeding out become fences: whitewashed and surrounding their homes.