mired in regret
I slog through
the rueful day
like the wet clay
soil of my birth
winter was worst
the cold clay clotted
about our shoes
the harvested hay’s
remnants binding
mud like bricks
to our feet
the ground
indistinguishable
as now yet
returning home
returning home
I scrape life
from my soul
in clots
like blood
until only
memory
of bone
remains
as a hint
toward
what I was
(October 10, 2014)
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