Playground

Temple bells ring,
an angel sings;
her voice fades into the gutter,
muffled by the sound of screeching tires
of an oncoming vehicle:
a demented daemon driver
that jumps the curb,
heading straight toward us.

The steam hisses
under your feet where
your cracked soles scrape over the frost,
you freeze hell over
through the roots
of frozen kikuyu dimension-blades
that stand out like Satan’s daggers.

Your hands turn blue,
every joint a rusted copper-chain link
that squeezes out the smell of playground oil
over your coconut skin,
jasmine milk
flowing
from the split-ends of your hair
into my temples.

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