324/365

i hate the emptiness
and what it demands.
every night a bout with the
dim shadow begging to be
made corporeal. how many
words can there be to name
this infinite pedestrian panic?

a girl’s father is swept away in a flood
as she plays a styrofoam guitar.
nothing but rice to eat and a gentle
glimmer of sunset on the muddy monsoon
river. weaponising material poverty
like a mallet to instil gratitude.
without sacrifice, empathy is just guilt
dancing with shame.

i remember long afternoons
waiting out the rain, the smell of burning
plastic garbage damped. the sound of droplets
like machine gun fire on the zinc roof. how absurd
youthful optimism looks through the long lens
of aged realism.

i hate the emptiness
and what it demands.
but god damn it, if i don’t
extract something from it
every time.