Fusillade

Any prisoner’s wing is a library of dreams.
Gathering at dawn to mourn the faded moons.

Down by where the sky is ripped.
Small creatures die the same way rivers are heroic.

Underneath this dude whose name is name
vast populations froth themselves like mysterious dolls.

One of the neighborhood clocks is an imposter.
In whose footprints stars are kissing faster.

Finally, those prisoners hitch up the perfect payday.
Every bank on earth is robbed at once.