Stricken

The sky’s bones
Like broken ribs,
Threatening, low,
Throbbing marrow
And your dark look–
There is no cover,
And hurried, harried,
Glancing anxious
For branching shock,
I hang my head,
Hunker in,
Anticipate the pain.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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