and deep sweet hills of Georgia
honeysuckle blooming
in the dark gray night
of moon bathed moss
this painful song that I
am dawning with
the face in the chopping block
blue and bald and gold
into the carousel of twilights
window's beams where we are in chains
across the yawning sheets
the plains I am a grafted part of
scattered on the tousled earth like sweetgum
blank stare of a granite owl
atop a gravestone
feathered square in a ring of fire.
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