Making Sense of Nothing Making Sense by Nancy Schatz Alton
Reds still dot my daily view.
Yellows turn to ochre.
Brown dried leaves litter our floors.
Ground down to particles—fall lives inside our home.
The molds live in us.
We wake to heat clicking on, dried sinuses—
a tightness across our faces.
Nothing to do but
read the news
until we bleed red—full stop.
So much red until we cannot take in the news—
turn it yellow, ochre, brown
the small particles of hate, the lies—
hurt our faces.
Read the news.
Where’s the Full Stop?