Spencer Linford


There will be nights
Filled with the dull chaos
Of fuck all.

Who knows what
Stretches across
Those nights?

Those nights are spiritual.
On those nights,
The only hope is rain,

That kind dear.
A pure pattern of
Gentle intention.

A symphony.
The flood—Noah knew.

The greatest of
Mother Nature’s
Mercy killings,


It’s 1:34 AM
And cold.
Gusts rip
leaves from
Skeleton boughs.
It’s a beautiful sound,
That flaying.
For now
The trees are dead,
But the wind
Wants more,
The bark,
A branch,
The whole tree,
The wind howls
For want of prey.
I try to hide 
In sleep,
But when
The wind subsides
The silence
With bated breath
I pray for another
violent gust,
for the scratch of leaves
Caught in a tailwind
On the walk,
So that I may
steal away.

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