OPTIONAL POETRY

Unseasonable warmth, a more agitated sunset, or maybe it wasn’t– anything can be anything, now. Say it’s eighty out, say it snowed, say it’s for our good and temporary as if this has never happened before– and I will say that this sky is pink and orange as ripe citrus, this breeze bitter as pith, this wind unsettled, this night falling harder, the way a fist does, or a downpour, or a spring-loaded door