pulled tight in the cold,
up to our chins,
a mythical protection
against
the wreck
of wind
against the shutters,
trombones
and
kettle drums
out of tune in the black
sky.
the clash of cymbals.
what's next?
will the river overflow,
will
we be submerged
and floating
violently towards
the ocean,
or will we survive and press
on as if
nothing
has happened when
morning comes,
with sunshine on the roses.
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