Dispatch

My heart these days: 
noisy thunderstorm breaking
over the stones. 
And the morning after,
when spore-lined domes  
proliferate across the grass.

It sinks into itself a little more
like spongy bread. I slice
onions and chop greens 
and throw in a small hot pepper,
careful not to touch my eyes.
When they water, it isn't clear

if one could call this crying.
After all, there's salt everywhere.
Copper and blood in the streets.
Travelers waiting in queue
for the signal to board a boat.
Everyone else unfixed or in place.



 

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