Sunday, January 27, 2013



Your head scrubbed raw
by restless grief-sleep,
you shuffle into porch-lit fog:
icy ground... patches of startle-hour snow.

It's dead-dog mid-winter.
The brighter stars have cut-'n-run.
Coyotes refuse your howl.

You listen to a gravity-bent
farmyard cat fight.

This shrub steppe is so weary
of holding you up to the moon
like a chalky middle finger.
You are swept lonesome.

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