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.