LeaveningA chorus of suicides, old relations worn out by marching in place, a whining off an icy bridge, three ODs . . . no, four. Four, how: the dead pile up since I’m not done, not done rasping them faceless, not nearly done amid this shifting about, this clattering, good bones grated, ground, sifted for a tone-deaf daily bread. Such Faith as Is AvailableAbove my house, student pilots
fly circles, figures. I don’t mind the low, day-long buzz. They’re learning-- I believe this--how not to crash.
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