The stair

Fingers press
on the stair
whose wood was crooked
and plastered into itself
sideways.
But yesterday when
the sun wasn't flaming,
damaged, fragments
reflecting
glassy eyes.
And the sky
wasn't puffy and
purple
and didn't suffocate
hollow men.
When the flowers were
gnarled and twisted
and colors ran
at alarming
speeds.
Yes, yesterday,
when the stair hung
precariously,
and waited for live hands
to breathe into its
concrete rails.