waiting for rain

and all afternoon the slow grinding

roar of factories pumping out
blood and despair and
all afternoon the stench of gasoline and
burning cars carried in on a steady
wind from the south

all afternoon the

sky a luminous silver, a delicate
shade of purple and the hills all
smudged & blurred against it

the sun at uncertain intervals

the tentative shadows of bare trees

across well-manicured lawns

when did you become so

fucking afraid of everything?

widow poem 1

silver sun in a

bone-white sky, which makes it
easy to confuse living
with being alive

helps the pills go down easier,

but the hands are still cold

the suicides refuse

to give up their beliefs

won’t laugh, won’t cry,
won’t give me any reasons
for what they’ve done

just stand their bleeding

onto all of my poems