6/28/20 2:26AM
Ashes fall out of me like
A holy hearth
It’s not Wednesday
But I can still feel the mark on my head
The thunderstorms waver
One minute haunting
The other crashing
And the old thin steel
Of my uncle’s Packard
crackles in the drizzle
There are things I can’t say
But nothing I can’t write
And I still write nothing
What a rout,
Every effort I have
I don’t need to be the red army
Yet I still go on long marches
And birds call in this storm!
Likely just as confused as I
Just pour on me
And fill up my head
The storm made up its mind
And blesses me with disparate
Shimmering
Mist
Just like claire used to do