Ian McBryde: Slivers

The nets. the horses, the nets.

White noise carries too many messages.

Your diamonds are invisible, but hide them anyway.

The swings of the playground are aflame.

The best voice in the choir can belong to a monster.

Somewhere in Texas, farmhouses are burning.

Old women's tears weigh more than our planet.

The cliffs are much closer than we think.

Next door the drapes stay closed.

There are more than fourteen stations of the cross.

A blind girl senses air movement, wonders who has entered.

The nets. the horses, the nets.