weeping raze yesterday eight airplanes skimmed the sky above my head. each one a bomb being dropped and then failing to flood the world with fire. this morning the heavens hold nothing but a bruise that won't fade and enough rain to turn these socks to slurry. the month will moan and move on like all the rest, but not before it's wearied and wept on those of us not wise enough to walk away before the last of the good light leaves. 240625 what's it to you? who go blather from