a rock, painted with a bright pattern, and the word 'GORBACHEV' in bold lettering, left on top of the recycling bin.

dried rainwater in a streak down the wall; a roll of paper, wrinkled. emails reporting flooding.

last night, pushing through lukecold puddles as deep as my ankles, washing fallen pine needles into my socks. this morning, water pooled inside my flat tire.

the leaves that rot leave oily patches on the pavement. black, slimy patches. my office doesn't quite smell like spring.

16 February 2018 20:50

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