Headlines

[novapsyche]

Joan Rivers is dead. A dog barks
every three seconds, an echo

in its jaw. The sun has perished
for the day--there live only hoots

& response hoots from canine neighbors.
Joan Rivers is dead. The Huron River

flows on, mid-height, with its flotsam
whitish like a sick tongue. Summer

is aromatic in its waste, its widening,
simpering, deadened scent. Flowers waste

& wither in the late September breeze.
The heat drifts with little threat,

yet the cold signals its packing punch.
Joan Rivers is dead. Ice looms.

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