Good Mourning Gorgeous

We woke around seven to
our heavens’ descent,
shrapnel and gods
and metals
and rocks

collapsing curbs
casually as dawn-grade
droplets.

You heard its
reverberation in the news
anchor’s pauses;

from
earthquake to
hurricane, her shaking hands were the
mother of barometers,
pure awkwardness at heart but certain
of their craft.

That was the morning
a market of optimism
made a morgue of our mastery,
for the only
ones still laughing were the
kings of its atrophy.

That was the mourning no
salary of words could pay paper
box debts I’d amassed.

And now I’m out
of stories, pretty lady;
they get shorter and unfortunately

abstract.

I turned my back on
the human side,

now there’s only animals
walking upright.

They come hunting in
numbers, instincts
unencumbered,

younger and more
savage than I.

The dirt might
have washed right out,
but the blood in my furs
has dried

for life.

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