Because the weeks limp by—every limb heavy

with weather that won’t let up & nothing
to be done but tilt toward a forecast

likely wrong & even that’s not any kind of
doing—forget how often hummed this

waited & waited for. & forget whatever
promise made, what we’d once call small

grace of these days or smaller yes or even
smaller still some sliver of blue in that

sky so cloud-thick every sightline near
invisible. You say maybe a patch of

land, a little space to stretch & then time
& wouldn’t that be enough, & I’m turning

pages in the calendar to try to find some
-day, in the atlas that map called room.

 

 

 

 

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