Why Weather Reports are Pointless

It’s dark and cold inside.

Autumn leaves

sprawl along the wet-rat sidewalk

like gnarled starfish desiccating

beneath crunching rain and driving footsteps.

After

decomposition,

they leave signatures on the wet dried pureed rock

path:

a brown ghost-hand spangling, fingers straining

in opposite directions.

If they could candy-snap off

and fly away they would. Alas, like the chalk

they have to wait until

it rains again

outside.

 

Someone had written all over the

sunburnt dried pureed rock

in front of my tower that

You Are Loved

and other such contemptuous swill in pastel cough-dust,

green like mint ice cream half-digested,

finally rejected now,

jello-sweltering between grass spades.

 

It’s far too dark and cold

inside

I scream soft lyric melodies

(in my inside voice)

I expel my chiffon and fishbelly innards

(onto paper with pencil –

my weapon of choice –

the key out

of my room

is lost somewhere inside.)

It’s far too dark

to wonder

far too cold

about the possibility of

warm hands.

Flickering blood-hearted things

extract my

love through the hermetic window, leaving me

inside

a deep-sea diver’s shrunken head

a melting chalk sentence

the pierced ink sac of a dissected room.

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