Dear, She lost the election. We can’t know what she’s thinking. It’s crazed.

Keep tact abstract.
Keep it to oneself
Healing a voice split to a pulp, gnawed —
Feeling a salt chill unexpectedly going up the swirling lines
Of humorists, ideologues, ragged modernists, including this one.

Holding to their path, rescuing none.
Yours, & ‘even more in mayhem,’