Frances Donovan

April, Merciless

the cats don’t care
if the rent goes up next year
right now the back door’s open
we tumble out

the sunlight’s merciless
mere buds on the branches
no feathers in the shade
the blue jay blares

succulents peep green
from puddingstone
I lay a blanket down
cold filters from the ground

my head, hurting in the glare
my head, too open to the air

 

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