The news loops and re-loops until tomorrow’s loop loops the next tomorrow.
We are naming the butterflies before the frost settles in.
The storm windows are winning against us in light only painters can manipulate.
Words are trite in the backdrop of war, but someone needs a distraction.
Boys play golf in the field, worried about a physics test.
The month’s money slips through unfortunate calculations.
The cello, though restrung, has forgotten all melodies.
Saints have crystalized to stained glass windows.
Things hurt in new places.
Last night I was something more interesting.
Last night I wasn’t preoccupied with home.