Once there was an undirected graph
an arbiter between earth and sky
a happy conflict between the line
and none, the back and forth of push
maybe in our world, a root
swallowed, some atrocity coos
beneath the buried lines
of this water tap.
Under the lean reserve.
And in this portrait,
layer after darker layer,
this sketch of lovely madness
on the merciless branch
beside a pitch raptor
or a chance fruit bit
of a poisoned fable,
am I the linen-washed duvet
draping your outstretched limb?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 1.
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