28/365 - 32/365

Along the highway,
ahead of the approaching storm,
a crescent moon hangs
balanced in hesitation
between waxing or waning.

He sits in the sun—
every morning the same man,—
same intersection—
bags piled around him. The sun.
No, he keeps shaking. No. No!

Despite the dry winds,
and the extended drought's reach—
fireworks can be heard
across the dark neighborhoods,
splitting the night with echos.

Even a small kiss
on the baby's shoulder blades
leaves behind a mark—
the act of loving transforms
to unintended bruisings.

Baby in your arms.
You pace the room. Trying to calm
his fresh energy
which rolls him as a comet,
restless, ever in motion.


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