the world by storm, incorrigible
rain. Stain yourself in bold
bruises and bright salt.
your hands and wave them, white
flags, unfolding doves. Love your
own limbs, the way they fall.
this, my last breath, my wandering
death and rattled reason. Treason
begins with small coins, a lie, a sigh.
Prompted by Poetic Asides, November Challenge, day 2.