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Posted by on Oct 3, 2021 in Fiction | 4 comments


The Bluest Day

There’s a glass of milk on the floor
of iron plating soon to be spilled,
arms and legs of a chair in waiting.
I watch the news with half an eye
the other wondering at the window,
will the police arrive? A life of peace
gone to waste, washed like the waters
of Mars into space. My own dead planet
bleats in the future while the bluest day
flamed and went out with a scream, planes
like birds flying into windowpanes.


  1. wow Stuart, thank you. I don’t know Patty Griffin, will check it out.

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