Calendar pages:
one scrumpled day
dies in a garden
spun to fools’ gold,
where wind mews
over twigs and bones
at an outhouse door,
black sky sustains
the buoyancy of loss,
dried sap
knots branch to branch,
caging a star
whose variable glance
is light’s tumult
cut to the quick
yet cold to the retina
as once upon a time,
remembered pain.
You might disagree with half of it, but you’ll enjoy reading all of it
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