1894
6.67
8.iii.25
live in a mad time
every line’s a
stanza
in a mad world
in the century melt
nor mattering
when comes the rain
then the hundred year drought
the insects are inventing again
a scratch and wonder where
the ceiling soiled, dream on
how many plagues can you count?
will they come to me these few first?
I smuggle a few words out of the head
something the size of the night gets
in
it’s landfall of storm
climbing the walls
everything the bird does for a reason
we’re the ones to be swept away
lost to the past
madness the only virtue
in the event of self, break glass
still sometimes won’t see me
not in the mirror yet
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