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, butfutility gets old quickly
the children are hungry and
the ceiling cracked
the age of plague
nearly upon usi will keep repeating this
until it becomes the truth
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