there’s nothing trivial about iron balloons

there’s nothing trivial about iron balloons.
the way they occur on the tip of your tongue
like brass fog and jeopardy 
whispering the password to the speakeasy
the hard way
so burning down the house
is deeper than
extinguished.

trouble is…

gospels are torn from your wings
sometimes. trouble slinks into your vagaries
like easy stones 
perched like villains you invited 
to your introspection. 
on a Sunday
with no
wings.

flapping in the need.