Sunday, August 19, 2012

w/ wings of clay

small gestures at the end of
summer, these anonymous lawns,
weed-choked flower beds, these
spider webs spun between branches
and the corners of windshields in
the first damp light of day, and
i would tell you here that i
love you but my voice would be
a whisper and you would be
3000 miles away

i would give this poem your
name as it’s own, but
futility gets old quickly

the children are hungry and
the ceiling cracked

the age of plague
nearly upon us
i will keep repeating this
until it becomes the truth

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