These bone motors not
crank for any but some 
say you gotta shot, Slammer.
In the room
a swift red slash
against the window-one wing
missing, one
unhinged to kiss the glass
crash, bound to spread
with blood run.
Clear halted flights crack
far from in enough 
inside; they slide
down pane through sudden slience-
wrong turns, wrong ends split
with or without a slight sound.