by Shelby Dale DeWeese
Stacked books
exhale
swirls of dust.
Tiny house,
cluttered
clapboard-shuttered
windows, struck by
sleet.
Slate sheets
obfuscate.
Billows of
fog,
smog,
the skyline playing
hide-and-seek
in the morning.
The mist gasps as
a ghastly figure
claws
out of the
shadowy grim,
a graphite smudge
of matted curls
whispering
down
her pale back,
plastered in damp
shrouded
by misty
nothings
and hovering
on the fringe
of misery.
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