the morning has an edge of the ill-defined about it.
last night’s rain has evaporated into imagination
and loss, the lightning an illusion of the dark,
a lie of the clouds, a magic trick to draw
the eye away from the real apocalypse,
stars invisible in the light.
the dry ground cracks
at the slightest touch, brittle motion,
the grass turns to sand in the bitter wind,
where the hedges sharpen their hawthorn claws
to feed from animal succulence, fresh blood drips,
and the day struggles to escape the voracious morning.
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 201
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