of a deep root
soil as blank
as the sun.
Swinging metal doors
the shock of the lit
green pasture.
A skeleton remembering
on a bulb of benches
in the faraway rain.
His tears are not for departures
but for dawn yet to come.
Blistering recall
limbs in a ditch
speechless berry pickers
a snakeskin scroll.
Arms for the womb
to take goose shape
ghost winter to summer.
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