Sunday morning, Jan. 6, 2013

There’s no preset attempt at a particular attempt at a poem. It’s just there. Whatever comes out that comes out. It’s all edited. I want to love the structure to be nice. A police siren just sprang in the distance, somewhere  near the railroad tracks? At least the train won’t pass by tonight. And it stopped. Perhaps nothing.  The wind is still aching outside. Moaning. She’ll never lose her voice.