You skirt another red pool
on the pavement, say, We are
a dying breed. Each one is, I say.
Those who kill, cull. Those who die.
Drop. I almost step in red.
A splash would make you hate me.
Near one of those posts we see
the torn head of darkness.
Two swallows send a message
that will not see the light.
When we reach the pavement’s end
we step on its beginning,
and without any fuss, you
begin to walk through the blood,
say, we are a dying breed.
Each one is, I say, almost
awakening the liquid.
two birds resend an unsent code.