Yard Sale of Thoughts

The sun rises thick:
egg yolk spilt on brick.
The sky a blackened toast
so crisp

the buttery light won’t stick.

Just stay home, the air is sick.

It can’t get well enough to offer nourishment.
Makes us choke, snot-nosed repentance.

Beggars on our knees below unfiltered air vents.

Burning eyes and itchy skin,
but there’s no wind to forgive us, and no clear bronchi left.

We are nature’s servants.

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