But Twice Sixty and Five

Somewhere around 125 days and the same number of corresponding nights which have carried them off at sunset, the mist begins to clear; the fog lifts.

Hardwired

I shake and shake the sky wishing the moon to dislodge and slam over rolling stars-- a stone over rattling kernels in jar; destruction, chaos and darkness!

I amplify my voice to the decibel of heartache and scream so all living and non-living beings hear my curse.

and still she wraps me, unflappable sky, her moon and stars remaining in tact across her breast, ever unimpressed by my earthquakes.