2/3/17

Standard

Nothing to offer these
strange mental demons.
She screams at me alone,
her hands ablaze.
Days came and wept,
came and wept, until
no trace of either remained.
The plainer meaning did us in,
it seems, and took us
further into sleep.
I had to simmer.
Summer was a getaway car
with a broken taillight.
Then, of course, the cramps.
Posterior trash. Fits of finicky rage.
When these had aged us
most severely, we
took up cryptograms.
Hats off, then.
She alone can whip my head.

-r. miller

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