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  • Writer's pictureJesse Anger

Still it comes

Updated: Sep 17, 2021

Still It Comes

Still it comes in the white day

over yield signs, highways -

from the insomniac magpie's

botched theft of balcony almonds.

Who later get rundown by casual traffic,

pancaked feathers swept to the curb.

Something raps the sliding door

but, isn't there anymore.

Still it comes a black eyed dog

whose saliva incisors bear the name

on your documents. Having your current address

some trick of the light. Slide down the tub

and plug your ears for sinking.

This change won't come free

from the pocket of your jeans, it's a fight

to spend the time to take it all in -

and still it isn't yours.

In this bricked hovel of a nave

a statue of mary misses an arm

and the wind in the ivy goes hushed

for the high laughter of children

an alley over - still it comes as a reflection

on glass. Whatever's behind rendered a dog's breakfast:

a palm, a mug, a magazine half opened

to a photo of the sea.

It comes.

A collection of offerings darkens the door.

Seeking your saving, your lust, after more.

Breaker after breaker redefining the shore.

A black lighter and white darker than before.

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