tombstones
raze two plastic stand-ins
for stone markers
with nothing inscribed
on their frail faces
conjure a canticle
in the key of confusion
each time i stand
at a window
in a room
that holds everything
i've come to hate.

until my eyes adjust,
i always see
something still living.

maybe it's just me.
221007
what's it to you?
who go
blather
from