jets
raze
clusters
of
leaves
lie
prone, imitating
dead
animals
in
the
median
of
the
paved
path
separating
my
house
from
hers
.
some
unseen
aerial
threat
churns
like
a
fleet
of
jets,
announcing
the
coming
storm
.
the
burnished
canopy
above
my
head
sags
with
unspent
sputum
.
yes
, sighs
the
sky
—
my
face
will
break
,
and
rain
will
fall
,
but
what
you're
hearing
isn't
thunder
at
all
.
those
are
aircraft
concealed
by
cloud
,
true
as
any
lie
you've
been
told
.
240805
what's it to you?
who
go
blather
from