I locate myself, a miasma
Of diffidence, pinned close
To the cork beneath display
Glass: a frayed diorama
Too tired to not repeat
The same accusations again,
As if change can change any one,
As if transcendence will mend.
Like a raven’s slow-arced descent
Along the edges of a dead field
Fluttering from bone to wet bone
Questions become irrelevant
as the answers circle back
To echo half-articulate moans.
(September 26, 2017)
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