Can’t seem to shake the day though the day

gone now. To turn away from only means
we’ll wake facing it again, those mornings

after & before slip into each other, everything
weighted down with sorry, all the regret

without a name. So, call it cloud hanging low.
Call it above crest. Call it windward, that

direction we always face. Sleepless we memorize
weather, turn forecast & its language

of spare & urgent our own, that taxonomy
easier than how we pronounce

whatever’s now something like past, like
long ago, like another year & far away,

how we stumble what we were, where,
every address, stutter to noun.





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