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

drink water

make coffee

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.

 

We wake.

Drink water.

Make coffee.

Read the news.

Bleed red.

 

Where’s the Full Stop?