At dusk the west
broke,
a seam of blood,
a vow the lost
and never-
found, those stuffed
in the roots of the gallows-
tree,
would not cease,
would sleep in the deep
of a red
lake in air.
Something unwound
in us
like kinks in a torqued
rope
cut. We fluttered—
the west shut.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 4.
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