IF THIS IS SORROW
Being past three in the morning
though not yet four has the usual
equivalency : Of a gun going off
but with only flash to react to. The
solid wind howls back. In the higher
sky, the moon - much smaller than
seven hours previous - lightens
the ground-strewn snow. I am a
capsule of doubt in the face of all
this. Mark me down: Uncertain.
-
Shall I ever see daybreak again?
Not knowing, not even wanting
to, I guess, supplants the used
fixations of an everyday life. If
this is sorrow, see me tomorrow?
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