around the base
of the battered magnolia.
Its roots snipped from their tangle,
it might bloom in fullness again,
but the petals and the leaves
remain in white and shining green
still vibrant within the sun burnt
and withered branches.
They still spark
under many hollow stars
as I rise with limbs
and my forked tongue
infolds with singularity
to sing to the ripped hills
and walk upon the dead
scales that I've left
on the earth's remainder.
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