crime spree
Nanette Rayman Rivera

Now fog is clearly more broth than
mucus—still, its crime tallow tangled
unbearably up. Roaches are Rockettes, all sea
turtles through their desalted eyes knowing,
down the rod cells and carapace
of head tucks and darts, that all living
animals are about to take
off and breathe ’til it hurts,

yet the amiable Box
Turtle of my law abiding self, having for a lifetime now
cringed inside the horny scutes of impossible flight—
whoa, away it goes, an eye glued shut
holed up for its life, and roaches rain down
as murderous winged thugs, as petty
crime’s breath is to passed-over beauty on
a backdrop so readily breathing.

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