Brain Fog

The hours accrued
scraping pollen from the tongue.
They get a little heavier so late in the year.
What fictions dear to me
will I pick at with these rusted fingers?

Galvanize the shower singers,
parade through graveyards
with stiff necks and wrecked throats.

My future wears many coats,
particolored and flimsy.
This here stone flute
produces insufficient sound
to cut through the deepfake chatter.
Supported by sadder sinews,
these bones have grown ashamed.

-r. miller

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