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Self-contained lately they say, but I, I

find small talk unflattering to the broken heart.


Like the freckles that litter your nose, I don’t know

where this conversation should begin.


Instead I glare at the sky with my palms outstretched to wrestle

their remaining faces free of the sunlight,

but suddenly one shifts and there’s nothing more I can see.


Everything is just a bright white light fading quickly, like the mad sun in winter.





The breeze stops blowing,

it says its directionless, but

I believe it was the crows that ate it;


cut it, chewed it, cannibalized it.


The walls of my house carried their caws

to my bed one night and

while supervising the darkness

I saw a murder

inhale a charcoal puff

and declare its completion.


In the morning

they took away my senses.






I can see with my eyes closed

the porch light stirring,


but Consolation

may never come

home again.


The weather tells me neither will you.