Poem (11.13.19)

Restless, the water groping.
Turning hope inside out
and leaving it stranded.
For the record,
that’s some underhanded
underappreciation.
Various in vocation,
the myriads drift
across the bloodshot rue
with cobbled bodies
and bubbling heads.
You go quiet,
pulling rain from vapor.
You get cigarette sick
and unload upon the gray.
Something in the shoulder
ups the ache,
dooms the day.
And you say
it’s only natural.

-r. miller

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