Never say anything about the weather

If you don’t want the gods to spit freezing rain in your face.

The Center Cannot Hold

Never write There is        no real winter --
what gods persist.       will smite you with
their slick facsimile:        now a gluey rain

that by night will turn        bitter,
coat your budding world        bit by reaching bit
in frigid and         pedestrian pain ...

Pathetic fallacy.        Poetic shit.
Seasonal affective        disorder, happy switch
click. Boring, the usual        despair. Don’t explain.

At the polls again,         splintered
from neighbors        by invisible 
walls thrown up in       back rooms, contain

this thick sinking.        Just use it to fill in
all the proper dots.        Circle it into those button slits
in the white fabric        of human shame.

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