"Protest's over, protesters arrested."

"You don't know the half of it, brother; hide,

your cell is waiting for you contested.

From jump-kick to toothache, rainwater lies

bleeding that would bead on polished headstone,

marked unmarked grave. Details weather cleansed, maze

whose entrance is the exit in disguise.”

"While my plot extrudes its wet bones, the guard

has issued warnings that I shouldn't ride, 

mornings, my bicycle through the graveyard."

It's not that it ended, but how: for days

rage of hard wings from the laundry basket.

I hoped it would go away on its own,

the corpse come to agree with the casket.