Wednesday, July 11, 2018



Gray Everything

Today there is gray
in everything,
old wounds and raw scars,
collapsible joists and bones,
broken sails and leaky boats,
smoke, always smoke,
slaking through the bleak brine
of another otherwise bright day
while a charcoal canvas,
wide as any ocean,
flops across the brittle spine
of an animal without name.
My eyes go on with their
blind man’s vacant groping.
My fingers knit themselves
a needy corpse.
This room wants me dead,
same as any other room
or loamy future.
Outside, the famished vultures
swing in haze
as the ceiling pounds
its tantrum fists,
the windows weak as rotten teeth,
relenting and imploding,
shattered away,
shattered day,
shattered life,
glass to sand again,
the plumes thick enough
to blur and swallow
what should have been
buried long ago.

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