March
by CL Bledsoe
March is the Wednesday of months, full of shopping
and waiting, highways made of turn signals,
something over the hills is drawing eyes like a field fire.
Soon, there'll be movies to comfort us. Soon,
we can sit in darkness with muffled coughing,
watch lives flash across a screen made from sheets,
not wishing they were ours, only,
that they'd move a little faster
towards somewhere we hadn't seen coming
halfway through.
Posted over on ken*again
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