Days without Incident

Day Three-thousand: Safe
as unlocked doors in quiet
neighbourhoods.

Day Three-thousand and One:
the air, like plaster of Paris, is damp
and suffocating.

Day 3002: tired as groundhogs,
lazing like summertime children
in Knickerbocker Glory dreams.

Day 3003: Fusion warnings and cautious
behaviour. Value of life is deemed via
protective equipment worn. I’m sorry
but money
is not accepted at this location.

Day 3004: The control rod of mundane
sanity is faulty. It will not go back into
position.

Day 3005: Things have turned to ash,
the forests have split, endings drawn down
the branches. The land is bleached and nothing
is alive.

Day Zero: there was no smoke left to settle.
Itching bristles replace the discomfort of a washing
basin on your shoulders. The town criers are ringing
their bells as if they were bored children holding
scissors.

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