Via claw-marks of the jets
                   X 
       marks the spot.

                   A 
                spire 
                tries 
      to point the way.

     Smokescreens follow their evolution
like obscuring flags parading by.
Narrowed eyes learn to see.
Cries wrenched from innocent lips 
flash past as lead in the air.
Just sometime evident
stars circle this neighbourhood.

     And what paddle to the heart is administered
in backwater streams like this- it's always for you
to say.