Within history’s shrinking confines,
poppies bloom in burning fields,
and a horned lark chitters in the grass.
Nothing I say can change any of this.
Days hinge on days. They open and close
like doors, any of two different ways.
Above, contrails crosshatch the sky
like satyrs’ claws down her back
caught in spasms of a darker lust—
and the new book snaps shut, unread.
Nothing I say can change any of this.
(June 9, 2023)
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