Spring Valley is bone
dry. Here in New York skies rain
tears of compassion.
San Diego fire 3
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Spring Valley is bone
dry. Here in New York skies rain
tears of compassion.
What’s necessary?
The triage of memory.
A pyre to the past.
Photos first, then the
baby albums. Love letters.
We can buy new clothes.
Her view from the hill
– once so fine in good weather –
just blackened landscapes.
Anne emails to say
smoke plumes rise like shrouds of loss.
Below, hell ablaze.
In bad rains bathroom
ceiling leaks. A slow tick tells
of water stains mapped.
Writing about rape.
Prostitution. Injustice.
Happy talkie talk.
At 6:30 they
awake to find I’m still up.
The curse of deadlines.
Sometimes when others
envision us in new light,
we become realized.
Insomnia has
tattooed across my eyelids
its wide-awake stare.