rain is a grey sheet;
outside streets smell like ramen.
i'm trying to not want.
the kid hid from cops
in the woods next to our house
while the train screamed.
in june dogs were killed
in mississippi yards, so
we brought ours inside.
she brushed her red hair;
the knots made a ripping sound.
i sat on the sofa.
headlights on in the rain
headlights through bare trees and rain;
awaiting spring again.
the rain on the tin
shed reminds me of a thatch hut
i need to live in now.
where's that white cat now?
the one the kids chased and kicked.
i've not seen him in months.
last night i heard gun-
shots, or were they just fireworks?
oh, gunshots, you said.
No comments:
Post a Comment