Amidst the arid anguish brought by cold, my beloved still chuckle
at the banners of blue caressing cold displays during every mornings destiny
and berate the blasphemous possibility that before winters banners cease to fly
we may perish.
After the storm, they will find the dead dark boy, clutching his mother dearly
dark as they are against the crusted canvas of ninguid white water, they are still forgotten
They will be found in the fodder left from fierce and feral wind, grasping for one another, gasping
for heat, alone on that highway hoping someone hears them holler
Dear borough buried in the midwestern bay,
could the custard wind carry any less crisis?
Dear Citadel 5