September 15, 2020

sanchopanzalit
Feb 6, 2021
1 min read

Jonathan Andersen

I watch the bad gas drain

out of the generator. I’m on my knees

in the crabgrass blooming

everywhere now beneath—

we’re all beneath—

a smoke-obscured sky.

I should have gotten up last night

to write down the lines that woke me up.

I can still make out their rough shape.

What is it that I have yet to tell myself?

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