Casimir Wojciech writes

THERE ARE NO BIRDS SINGING, HOWEVER

i'm combing through

my grandmother's recipes for answers

,

windows 

open

,

voices

exit

,

cool & alone

,

if i could tell you what it means

to be sitting here listening to the rain fall

;

;

;

(against the secret distance inside all things)

bottles clink

lightning cracks

everybody stops bleeding