A Living

by on September 27, 2021 :: 0 comments

The noise in the hallway
while you’re trying to sleep
because you have work in the morning
will die. Crows cawing
over string falling from your pants
as you start your car will
die. Your alarm clock
set for 6 AM will die.
Even those tiny bugs
(you seem to only notice
on weekends)
that love spilled honey
Your voice already dead,
as you recall those summer nights
when hair over shoulders looked best,
the shape of another
impossible to miss,
even in the dark,
and moaning made the most sense
as you felt alive just long enough
to say nothing.

editors note:

Inaudible implications alive from the dead. (We welcome Richard to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

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