Cannon
The first time a man is shot out of a cannon, he will not remember the heat
the searing of his elbows against iron walls
He won’t recall the flash of daylight sprinting to his origin
He may not even remember the low end conversation
Of the bang itself. What will stay with him
Is the silence
The absence of anything before his explosion
The way the white sucked at his skin
Like his 9 year old forearms by the vacuum attachment
I never took you for cannon
your mouth a flash of opportunity and reconstruction. I pray the monuments of lesser
are never flattered by your explanations. At your best you are collapsed towers
and brick dust. A concert of open fire hydrants responding to your outburst
I hope to be the white between your words. My name an explosion when it leaves
your iron clad lips. Sing. Please sing me. I have never been chord or wrecking ball
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