Burning Zither

The street grew only strangers. All the faces we were wore slings. An ingrown arena peered out from our sigh. We spread ourselves out to feel the glass in a crowd. We prayed to a dog, then some flies. Our solo was a burning zither, not a kite.

Copyright © 2017 by Eric Baus. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 30, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.