After Sorry

The atmosphere is thick
with spring dust. Seems
to be the way

it is now. The thaw begins
and the sky reddens
with roving topsoil ripped

from thirsty roots
the next state over.
It was not like this when I was a child –

teeth gritting, eyes burning
the dry sand of a desert winter.
In my imagination, this is how

the apocalypse might feel –
horizon full of churning wind and dirt
to make it hard

to go outdoors, and harder still
to see mountains
or starlight, but (like today)

just short of thick enough
for the merciful possibility of hiding
from myself.

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3 thoughts on “After Sorry

  1. the mobius strip, the escher-ness of your closing stanza. it being a relief for the atmosphere to be, “just short of thick enough/for the merciful possibility of hiding/from myself.” The so human paradox of being _saved from the mercy_ of hiding from one’s self.[emphasis, mine—or maybe yours, too?)

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