The Mystery Verdant

that night the jury rolled back in,

our courtroom was dull, like a tin


can after rains. faces were condensed.

words bolted through, and flashed–

then the rumble all around.

we sat

still, no shelter. storms keep coming.

they’re always coming, never going.

did you feel a drop? did you feel it

sprinkle? i wondered quietly:


are rainbows ever tired, and do they

stretch out down here,   in the gray?

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