The towns are leaning in to catch glimpses of our failures, or to lean out of the smell.
Even still, how many months after the storm, the bodies are being pulled from the mud-rubble.
I’m in the rafters. They pour in, crusts of glances, gestured eyelids, peeling.
I don’t have your whispers. Your cares in the car horn. The fog makes everything new without snow. Without snow you drawl on a living out of careless boundaries.
They can’t see me but they collect. Wedged in the doorway like a mob to a concert.
I’m chorded in the sound of temperament. Your distemper. The diseases kill the dogs as fast as the Zombies do. As they do, they make speed out indifference. They’re coming to dinner.
Coming too.
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