Samuel 12: In Writing
Witness
I am not trustworthy
witness. When accused
I crumble. Anger
burning, sour in my throat.
Days of harvest. Thistles browned.Lupine brittle. Wild oats
empty themselves to open beaks.
Air alert with leashed thunder--
I have not yet put winter away.
Night planes whine like wasps--
we sleep beneath haunted skies.
When do i stop to pray
except silently?

I have not managed to make substack preserve my spacing. If any of you have advice, would be grateful to hear!