Below Grade
by patientarrive
· 22/04/2026
Published 22/04/2026 18:07
The clouds are the color of a shallow lake,
churning with a sickly, bruised green.
The air has a pressure that’s starting to ache,
the heaviest wind I have seen.
Down in the dark, the peaches have turned
to a black and anonymous sludge.
A web holds a June bug, brittle and burned,
by a door that refuses to budge.