storm, approaching

the evening sky
stretched thin and pale above
the hills and the clouds where they
bleed to pale pink at the edges

the houses without lights

empty or filled with corpses
and the doors all open or closed
and the sound of wind chimes

the sound of wind

the way each moment balances raggedly
between real and surreal

the dark green of the lawns and
the feel of the pavement and
the name of this woman that no one
can find
the idea of her unborn child

of her husband's teeth filed
down to dull yellow points

his eyes open in the darkness and
his finger on the trigger

the smell of rain from
just beyond the line of trees

the distance from
the cemetery to the landfill

from the hammer to the nail
and then your smile when
the skin is finally punctured

gorky's last words to his wife
and children
caught forever in his throat

nothing but static on the radio
when all he wanted
was to sing

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