back to this
again
cold and grey
and the eye of god
closed tight against the
raw sound of animals
dying terribly
you were hoping for
something better
a child of your own
a small white house
in a quiet town
but here we are on
beecher street where white
is not a color
is instead
a waiting for rust or
maybe just bleach spilled
across a favorite
shirt
a minor shade of despair
and even if the
sun shines it casts
only shadows
and even if
the windows break
we’ve forgotten how
to bleed
and there is never a
shortage of angry fists
trying to help us to
remember
