Thursday, July 30, 2015


All of these things that were never here
are here still.
Voices creep through the air vents,
but the words don’t really sound like words;
A whisper cuts through them all:
Don’t bring tomorrow, it says.
Don’t bring tomorrow.
I know what’s going to happen,
and I walk on the shards of glass
Ask me what poem the next night will bring
and my stomach twists in fear.
The only times I drown
are when I wade into the river

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