the un-moveable, un-lion, roar-shut me; a bouquet of new fatigues – chlorophyll rich (hospital clutches and lilies with dinner-groceries); a kiss-based game of telephone, loan me that last embrace, pass it to the end of its path; sparse standing in perfectly spaced chaos on the dawning patch of grass, just below a tree filled with yellow canaries in brand new repose – on the event of earth’s pulse interrupted by expected demise; a black trash bag moves across your lane on the freeway like an inklot ballast, wayward from its core at the center of a landscape’s ravine from a 19th century portrait of America, homed to a living room that never belonged to you, that you visited once a month or so for a decade; life before the county put concrete between our houses, a soft place for our cars to traverse, before the sun set across a driveway in long legs it expanded in gravelled fidgets; this is my travel toward a be-stilled heart

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