Sycamores phrasal, ashen,
this cross-hatched, argent patch of woods.
Respond with hard answers, please.
My season is upon me.
Green in there somewhere, yes,
even red, if I hash around?
Goodbye beauty, I might also say.
Depart loveliness, at last.
Passing by pallid fields,
I confess I dreamed of us.
Precarious weeks, these,
yet you never want me small.
Or parceled. Rather all.
Who dies but once?
Evening bears the brunt
of incinerated prayer,
endless as a tale unsnared
by denouement, in closure small
as the smother from which we first bawl.
This wine, in sips, takes its measure
from whatever sober world it blurs.
Love’s an aortic nave. Its tears?
And sky? A shining, cross-haired dress
I’ll wear to earth’s address.
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