the sharply tattered
gunshots ricocheted across
airwaves slink deeply
into the background of days
spent with little else in mind

I know I’m running out of NaPoWriMo days for something else substantial. Days are too full, and brains are too empty.

I have a partial draft of something with a germ of a good idea and a couple of crumbs of crusty phrasing that fit a prompt, but I’m stuck on the words I want. Placed in the file along with about eight others this month. None of them break free the way others dance with language.

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