Intricate Loathing


The way the stars cut
sharp, tinder us toward

ashes, tender us worth
-less. The way the fender

bends into the breeze,
going ever nowhere and

the way the music (too
is still saying no

-thing and everything
and all the damn things

in between. The slant of
sky in the rearview mirror,

for want of something, any
-thing better. The rain. The

skeletal shadows (paper
of bony trees. The

fat white moon bubbling
up as if hope were a balloon

and we were somehow
still able to breathe.


NovPAD, day 29 (two for Tuesday) 

This entry was posted in moon poems, NaPoWriMo, Poetic Asides Chapbook Challenge 2016 and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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