Gardnerville
Oct 31, 2022
How could you know where the simile
stops
there’s a twang in the dirt, metallic footstep
of the future.
I can never transcend the image of brush
along the irrigation ditch, how it clung
in senseless visible hope, thirsty and coated
with its own pollen. It was yellow then
as I am jackal-yellow now, hackles pointed to winter.
This town will scatter my bones
beneath a new overpass someday.
The blue gift you left on my stoop
is too heavy. The heart is a scavenger.
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