A city I hate,
a shattered chair.
I clot here,
staring at war.
A window streaked
with breaks, another
raging
in its frame.
What’s nowhere
to a door
if not
the skin in me.
A city I hate,
a shattered chair.
I clot here,
staring at war.
A window streaked
with breaks, another
raging
in its frame.
What’s nowhere
to a door
if not
the skin in me.