Jessie Dixon
Miles of uninspired gray perfuse
my will. In a frigid-winded downpour, left
arm hanging heavy at my side, I ride a
bicycle down this muddy gravel
road. Persistent yet lukewarm wanting
and four more sour weeks – a cold sponge soaked
in old peppery milk, which I will not
abandon, says of me, “She kept
showing up, disdainful and proud.”
Or
I quit — light a
fire and raise the room temperature,
white flag to my comfort zone. Take my
time in sky blue cashmere. Yet my breath,
released, would not relieve
the weight of regret.
Clamor 