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Barren


George Clayton Upper III



The spare was also flat; thus
we are forced to pass our time
waiting, hopelessly filling
the intimidating silence with vanities.

Your smile dims in twilight smoke-
your eyes were never with me,
stuck here, airless, loud exhales
echoing, echoing with silent vanities.

My face feels dead and heavy
as a boated tire, dripping and
snagged. Brackish water and
blood on my tongue, vain in the camouflage silence.

Headlights. A sharp intake of
breath, holding it, holding it'
but we will not be rescued
that easily from the vanity of silence.

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