Rust particles – slave
to sinking sands
the hands watch themselves
become pasty
in the clay baked air
afterward – stillness
afterward – the poem of today
is a drooping eyelid
listlessly wishing
I didn’t have to be here
but here is where I’ll be
soldering irons
fusing a ring around
the rosy alarm
unarming and swarming
the nest – blessed elegies
strung along
the window sill
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 