of rain on the sill
i have charred feathers and perhaps
forgotten a warm meal or two but i'm still
trying to recall who
and why
and i inhale the gray air
building castles of leaves in my mind
sometimes i give all
of my breath
in one great cloud
and others
i feel crowded with people
who are not me
even in all
the quietness of
thin fall air
and i want to
scratch my skin
until it stings
until i find a peace
and for a moment
lie still
as if there was
nothing important
to do
(written somewhere in october and just now)
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