Oct 1, 2022
for the word poem thing, comfort
residue of comfort
cloying like an old rot
at the remembered corner
of an old house, stacked neatly
swarming, teeming with a sort
of it's kind, one that has indeed
met many of more - a comfort stuck
under a river where feet slipped about
some rocks, here befallen like a story.
or a comfort that lives in terror, a wait
for where the city bends unto itself, as
much as it is like an old day, that
must have certainly gone by,
it still holds that strangeness to it, passed
and yet to come, knowing it might come.
