Creeping Floods


she calls me cold to my verse,   and all I can
do is hum radiohead and wish   .  .  .    but
I’m not special and the angels won’t reprieve
sentences beyond their jurisdiction.
and sometimes I think,   just maybe this time
I think it could be,   should be,    maybe it is
about me  —  but better sense prevails even
here in this echoed poem of an open
prison.          her ashen heart must have forgotten
what her pretty smile belied,     joy untold
spilling over those urbane weekends west
of everything and apropos of nothing.
fear rains and the floods carry seeds of what
might have been far away to briny death.

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