I hear later this week we’re having a July day in March a day of hard shadows and fire, the sun turning up its burner to blister the skins of spring yet to harden while young leaves and flowers ex
my mood today doesn’t match the lazy sun’s, not even the flat one of the cumulus clouds as I pull out my own cloud umbrella and walk head down inside its shadow, where others can’t see the face wh
clawing remarks raked across furrowed faces and force fed down closed mouths the push of surety sometimes needing the deadliest weapons from the soul’s arsenal to break through, burn and bludgeon
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