Fix, by Alice Fulton

There is no caring less
for you. I fix on music in the weeds,
count cricket beats to tell the temp, count
my breaths from here to Zen.
September does its best.
The Alaskan pipeline lacks integrity,
mineral fibers are making people dizzy,
we’re waiting for a major quake. Ultra-
violet intensity is gaining,
the ozone’s full of holes and

I can find no shade.

The full poem is here, and its really wonderful and worth a read.

I found this on Pome, a fantastic newsletter full of daily poems run by Matthew Ogle.

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