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Say Something Saturday. Is that a thing? It should be. How do we use these voices of ours to make something that helps? That is the main question, I think, of this whole stupid decade. How can we help?

I don’t actually have a lot to say today. I just want to get this done, which is the feeling I’ve had for the last couple weeks. I have not very many weeks left of poems, and truth be told, I’m tired of poems. I miss my friend commenting on them, even though all the rest of my friends have taken up the reigns. I just really miss her.

I think tonight I’ll write a quick weather-dance poem and go take solace in my Hp’s stupid November beard.

Drifts

Those breakers now in the small hours, changing into dry flakes in the deep November dark. Feel that clear pressure, what a distinct and lovely feeling, this drunk breath all gulping up the cold. Eight degrees and a falling compass. Fall all the frozen waters, what a craggy substance, just flitting to the ground, what a cold substance cold and terrible and welcome here, falls without pretense or science. Drifts a changing now, in the briefest hours, go get wild on the barometer now, give it out like the Whimsy, it is easy to take up. Shored up from scratches of gold from August, we know the demands of winter. That cold tells us where to stand. Where to stand and breathe for awhile.

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It’s getting cold outside. Is it weird that I like that? Happy Saturday, poemies.

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