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At Dusk

 

Out on a walk, I saw two girls
screaming through

a two-seater swing, two fans
of blonde hair. There was a hill

in the way, shoulder-high, and they
were nameless, without bodies,

the way birds might appear
when lying in their nest. I left them

against a blood-orange sun and bent
around a curve, still with their calls,

fading.

 

 

Published inBlogging & PoemsMy Poems

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