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
loud) 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
skins) 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) 

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