t.s. is hypertextual
armbar i.v. (in a coma): 72 objects
By Tamryn Spruill
Sunday mourns a gray-hooded sky.
Crows squawk condemnation into the sun. Their
inky black wings carry wishes,—weightless. She watches them
ignite, rain down sparklers.
Ash floats east to west, into the
direction of her doom--a
backward wind carrying anthrax, ricin--other
Destination travel for her struggles--the
mirror into the secrets she never thought she’d keep.
Copyright © 2012-2021 Tamryn Spruill.