Fullness in the way
the light moves the clouds.
Had I words to describe…
Your brain, a rancid sponge.

My vanity plunged me
into the asphalt garden, assaulted me
with multi-colored steel beams.
Then the cream of evening…
rising like a measured breath
from the tops of monuments
erected to celebrate failed divinity…
sat in the sky and curdled there.

We bitched for an hour
over lukewarm beer.
Dour diagnoses sang we.
The words were like stains.
Tumid sat we in the rain and in the heat.
“A heap of broken images”

-r. miller

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