The Orphan

There I am—the reflection of ten frozen flies armed to the teeth.
Seven broken kites tied to the shadow of a Gypsy, blazing
A sooty crumb trail of thumbprints and fingernails
Through a field of crop dust & snow–towards a stockpile of dirt
Where the constable always catches me
Kissing the grubby lips of a toad, skipping my dead sister’s rope.