I tried to write poems yesterday and the day before. Yesterday's poem meant to center on an imageof the pearlescent foggy light I saw driving in the early morning. A hard-cooked sun broke through at the top of the frame(I thought of Denton Welch’s A Voice Through A Cloud and the accident) and there was an imminent, Holocaust-like aspect to the scene. Driving past the cow pastures therewere no cows. The poem was hopeless.I wish I had taken a picture. Reaching the coven's clubhouse relieved I exhaled.
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