by JK Miller
The sun has gone through its closet
of warp-faced steep twills
smooth sleeves and elegant ribs
and finding nothing
to put on
has left the house in a huff,
and climbed up on its horse
and gone prancing
like Lady Godiva in the buff.
None of us
looks directly
but instead inside
dark corners
we who are mostly
water wait
and cup our knees
and bow our heads
so our lonely sighs
horseshoe-nailed
wave-sheared,
and third day-bruised
collapse in the cold light
jolts sweeping
sparking trains,
all because —
it won’t rain.
© 2026 JK Miller All rights reserved.
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