Damaged: Prose Poem

Aren’t the gallows pretty…

Photo by Trevor McKinnon on Unsplash

This is the … the mad —

well, or something somehow in between the distant future death and closeness of stopped-breathing — left to one side, but it’s all sides, really, all grief piled up like a curb of snow in Winnipeg in the winter of ’21/22 — yes, and the flood of damage or damage of flooding, feelings, etc. but lost in a nightmare of one’s own division —