That glimmer we make
in the blind slope
scraped from disaster’s
layered muck,
Whenever I want to add beauty
to memories of growing up
Bath so hot I can’t get in
That album-game over to pretending to want to go out
It seems like everyone is writing poetry about the last days, about paranoia and
musings of what will come. I have run
out of milk and the grocery store is
business as usual, just a five minute
walk in melting snow.