skyweed

grey crepe
strung across
my loss
like a limp
squid
like floss
that's been spent
with bits of bread
sullied and soggy
chewed and screwed
between my monstrous
teeth, on the floor now
waiting for broom and pan
or another cold front
to turn that grey skyweed
into cleaning solution
el sangre de Cristo
has nothing on the rain
the weather throwing down
its gentle complaint