back to this

cold and grey
and the eye of god
closed tight against the
raw sound of animals
dying terribly

you were hoping for
something better

a child of your own

a small white house
in a quiet town
but here we are on
beecher street where white
is not a color

is instead
a waiting for rust or
maybe just bleach spilled
across a favorite

a minor shade of despair
and even if the
sun shines it casts
only shadows

and even if
the windows break
we’ve forgotten how
to bleed

and there is never a
shortage of angry fists
trying to help us to

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