tarred and feathered by a god
that gives good rain.
I hate feeling hung over
especially since I don't drink,
but that's what the chemo
does to me under the dome.
For every step forward,
I take a week back.
I have lived on the horizon
for so long, flags don't know
where to wave us,
left buried where we burned the boats.
someday, this will be an idea
of a writer and nothing more.