The 13th day passed without incident (a poem)

Someday I’ll figure out why I keep coming back to that particular metaphor…

Nothing left to shout about
no voice left to scream

Head down
focused on minutiae—
grains of sand
the grain of the slats
between the stains

Calls for help
answered far too late
submerged in the fog
the cavalry lost in clouds
of dust and tumbleweeds

The third time’s not a charm
but a correction
steps back to the starting line
one last exhale
letting the water fill your lungs

I suppose it’s not so bad after all
I suppose it’s not so bad after all
I suppose it’s not so bad

(31 January 2019)


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