Dispatch #162
Clear
Clear
After eight days of rain
what isn’t overwritten
under sun. These
asphalt cracks
pushed further apart.
Eight days without
definition: gray walled
the room in, and I
thought I found a way
to stop thinking—to allow
gray to become a sound
I couldn’t hum myself out of.
All I heard was a window.
A long weed beat
unevenly against it.Â
Thank you, Joseph! Your poems are evocative and precise and always, always make me feel better!
So good
"All I heard was a window.
A long weed beat
unevenly against it."
Perfection.