the destroyer > text > Sean Burke


I’m building a tiny machine
that would save our lives

if we could fit inside.

I stayed up all night
drafting instructions for a fire
with perfect reception.

Fall out of the tree.
Shoot into the bush.
Climb into bed

and forge a tiny death
to pass off as your own.
You owe me that much.

I gave you two stones

out of season, a month
birds lived in.

Together, we had
friends in small cities.
Then you returned

from the car
in a windowed crinoline
and clapped nonchalantly

at each new blossom
in the garden. Birds
flew to the moon

but couldn’t find food

and hibernated. Now
turn to the tree.

Count to three. You don’t see
friends in the faces about you.
They are trying to line up

the prisoners before
the firing squad’s
totally melted.