The Air Runs Through Everything

The Air Runs Through Everything

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Crows call through pines,
clarified in the cold blue of morning.
An old wool war blanket scrapes these knuckles
that pull it tighter across my shoulders.
The crack of bacon grease
will end this soon enough.
The air runs through everything.


April is National Poetry Month, so I’m publishing poetry for NaPoWriMo throughout the month.

This Desert

This Desert

The Fish Whipped Silver

The Fish Whipped Silver