Wind and rain strike the roof 

And river the streets.

Flowers drown in a muddy

Mix of eggshells and ill leaves.

I wonder if they’ll survive.


At night the power goes out. 

We bust out the candles.

Living sparks the non-living lumpy wax

Man. He melts the uncertainty 

Of the dark with every flicker.

I poke needles in his liquid head.


Next morning the sky

Shows signs of recovery,

Its body a lighter shade of gray.

Remaining flowers are crowned

In crystal and hold jewels

Too heavy for its petals.

Talk story

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