Francine Witte Broken Sun The clouds drifting across. Light, then dark, then light. The rain in the clouds stuffed up like anger since you left. Wait, I wanted to tell you, you left but you forgot to take me. The wash of yellow on the sky canvas. Those are the good days. Other days, the clouds scrunch the rain out, spongelike. A little at a time. In a line at the supermarket, or later, driving, my knucklehands squeezing the wheel, or later than that, in sleep, seconds before a dream.
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