(Poems) – december

there’s little sensible about the sunset.

why is it worth the effort? a death

made meaningless by resurrection.

like driving down the street to the

next small town like it’ll be any

different.  america is a circle.

this year died like the last.

alone and dark, clinging

to frostbitten holidays 

and burning books.

lost december;

a cold rapture.

the whimpering 


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