poetry by j matthew waters

looking out the third floor window

of course I’ve done this before
adjusting the past like some light
that only wants to flicker

the more you adjust the rearview
the less the picture fails to change
sunsets sounding like analog sirens
serious misdemeanors like grave sins

I’ve been seeing red again
random spots in a field of cotton
perhaps cast by a surveillance drone
sent to uncover the mystery of
crop circles & all things unexplained

september two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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