through the last three months I have been
mourning
flowing through the mechanical movements of missing you.
the mornings
are lonelier now, and the moon’s  meandering motions mistake my melancholy for metamorphosis
for I have been modified by your musical meglomania,
And I will forever be forgetting you.

for today I'll be giving you my half
so when the sun hits the road
i could feel the warmth of your grin
as it lights the whole town just the same
for tomorrow i'll be giving you half of my remaining half
so when the crescent converges over the roof
i could hug you 'till the morning comes
and sense your arms under my heavy head
for overmorrow it goes on and on
so there will always be half left
bumps and lumps might be on their way
but it's alright
we can always try again
because you belong
to my tiny heart

The air was painted.

Inside the chain link fences
were clouds;
brushstrokes
that could’ve been
proffered by
Van Gogh
or
*******
as they dissipated
into the early, cold
morning air,
pausing only for a
few moments to allow
some of the particulates
to freeze;
the hydrogen, the oxygen,
the lye,
&
detergents that
make up whatever
is used in
a prison laundry.

The effluvium is rich,
the odor of a passable
cleanliness in what is largely
a rather fetid domain.

The scent of bleach,
harsh, chlorinated,
removal of that which
stains.

Yet,
something stays,
an acrid, sour smell;
an unpleasantness
which seems to have chosen
to remain
unwashed.

It is concluded,
that this emanation,
is the opposite of
emancipation,
it is a olfactive reminder
that
Building # 7
serves up
freshly washed sorrows,
rages, or regrets
as well as
whiter whites,
releasing
stains from grays
more often than the wearers
of
these wardrobes are released
themselves.


With this in mind,
swirling, shifting,
moving, motivating
marching upward,
toward
Building # 1,

It is breathed in,
and out, and in
again,

renewal,
like clean laundry
washed in industrial
soaps, rinsed in disinfectants,
delousers, deodorants
unknowable.

Starting over.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Overmorrow,
And,
Everafter.

Amen.

*
-J­BClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021

This gaping hole
Buried in my chest
It wishes to meet
And be met by
All the love I’ve seen
But I’m alone today
And I’ll be alone overmorrow
Because my hole is too deep.