The hammer falls where it will—
the very young, the very old,
their pearl-gray skin. Wind moves
like a great hand, and a mirror
empties. Lost, the exquisite
blooms of the eglantine.
A twisted sassafras. The red
jacket, the long velvet skirt and
figured blouse slipped from me.
Hot blood pulse and the constant
honest ticking of clocks. White
butterfly wings blinking like eyelids.
The simple perfection of apples.
Here are the dead: duplicitous
and funny, laughing, brushing
fragrant hair from their eyes,
sweeping leaf-spattered sidewalks,
counting the visible stars.
A mouse in the wall squeaks
like a hinge. I draw the blinds
to close out the vigilant moon.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 3.
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