Always nearby, Fear hangs back
floating like the hint of smoke
on the horizon. The city lies
in that direction. Home lies
in that direction. We are not
going back again. Still, it comes.
Its tongue insinuates the air; soft
words clot our ears with ice.
This is the time which we live in:
slow lumbering ideas, empty and angry,
tumble through the streets like rocks
tossed by giants from mountain tops.
No one notices the viscous fire
burning the flesh from our bones.
(September 4, 2019)
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