Charles Kell

​

ENTROPY 

Headless statues float in a broken

open Cornell box, past last call.

In a small room off the water,

wind burns through empty bottles

making neon green headstones

that stare back from the window-sill.

Even before your brother died,

you felt like an only child crawling

in the dark. Under the bed you shared

for twelve years he built a herbarium,

cigarette butts planted on the periphery

with faces drawn over them. This

was your family. To lure the stricture

away, clouds inside the closet, shirts

shrink over your scratched shoulders.