the sun pale milky a dead fish eye obscene sclera the sky wan as weak excuses empty platitudes mornings start out tired and degrade from there this pastel more opaque than you’d think displacement of clarity can’t see known things all day a grainy sad sunset sore-throated atonement the wind made corporeal and punishing
Rain, finally. As if home was returning from battle– the cold slick road engulfed correctly the familiar treachery of a high mountain pass– prodigal clouds come back as if visitors. Who knew this summer could actually end? A timely progression of seasons, how strangely normal. Still a headache from yesterday’s smoke, but seeing it, belief and then such relief despite white-knuckle driving for hours after
OPTIONAL POETRY 