On The Sickbed

The slashing rain,out there —Howling cacophonyfrom the sky,the earth drowned,sobbing,red lights like wounds,blurryin the miasmaticair, the scentof rotten leaves,and hints of feet.Wind patrols,throwing the fists.

April,the combat of seasons,elemental trickery,weather treacherousabove this city,sovereign like a queen—

No one hears you !except perhaps a toddlercryinglike a caged thrush