I make songs

of wrong notes,

misplaced words,

voice box filled to breaking.

Begrudging expenses,

I swipe small spiders

off my money. My voice,

at the edge of expiring milk.

The ice asks

how to prove God

in winter. Ink

thin as blood.

The shootings stack

like yellow pages

waiting for dumpsters.

Sleeping dogs lie about the dream.

The initial shock,

of civilian terror, is plausible.

This could happen again.

Never has lost its place.

Will SchmitComment