December 5, 2014 by Wayne.
These days, grievances stroll filtered
through sieves of hate, swelling and draining.
These days, the rainbreak waits politely for
hands stalled by equatorial cruelty.
lunch is the acquiescence of decay
and the unbearable depth of longing.
are the closing ends of fragmented futures,
the aborted dream of not turning aside,
the means to this open nakedness I find myself in.
These days, it’s the same every day.