dry spell

Sometimes we snap.
Like dry branches, like frost,
And bury the others with us.
Chips from a lightning-struck oak,
Splinters of pine, unruly cones
All in a heap, rushed
To a conflagration.
Sometimes the ragged
Edges know only to tear,
And heal all crooked.
Flames lick at the dark
Fluid inkiness
Stabbed with stars
And make it starker.
Sometimes it’s night.
Sticky, sweltering, never
Leaving completely.
Lightning splits clouds,
Flashes and points
At so many dreams.

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