Scars and Burial
A Poem

The wind tore down one of my eavestroughs and I don’t have the heart to bury the damned thing, but I haven’t got a ladder, either
Change keeps carving deep ruts here miniature explosions of dust and the rubbish we keep hanging onto to be alright with the world
I’d be a better letter-writer if I had anyone to send things to but then I don’t want you to have to know any of this
Immobility frees me up to do some more sentencing but the verdictive tendencies can get me in trouble
I really don’t know why I keep pointing at the scars I guess it’s just a wrestling with skin that doesn’t go anywhere
J.D. Harms 2020
