Only temporary peril—another Thursday.
Blood remains primarily
inside my body. The scream of
the animal is for attention.
Abruptly my shadow reminds
me I am human, in the room,
though the darkness I make
on the walls could be mistaken for storm.
The coulisses of trees endure,
despite my failures to see them
as more than symbol.
The gray seems personal.
The news, sempiternal.
I am of and in an uncertain age.
A coolness descends. The future.
Nothing Major to Report, Leila Chatti
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