but don’t, I shouldn’t, so it is, I said

it’s pitter-patter precipitating
more than often, I see a shivering tree,
trembling in the chill

I want to write about it, wrap a scarf around it,
hold it close, dream at night about it

I feel nauseous when I read about the
pedophiles in the paper

or maybe just a weary fury over
vengeful futility, my own

the news reminding me of scars and wars,
glancing away at heretofore

The room I sleep in is cold and dark,
the bedspread has a moving pattern

but I can’t escape the noises from prisoners
shuffling in other rooms,

a pin drops, a foot stomps, a vibrating drone,
alone/not alone

I am a danger to no one but myself
(or is it everyone but myself?)

I can’t remember exactly why anymore;
it’s the blank messaging

that takes me back to the time
when I would listen to
how I wish you were here on repeat,
en masse, rehash..ing

venerated half-hearted wounds
not yet emptied of sorrow

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