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Hypochondriac

 

You and your wings
have left me

paralyzed—the ‘skeltered wings      hanging
like crows’ nests, indefinitely,

fusing together like salt and ice.

And she said: Please,
do not call me darling

anymore.

The sky still carried some of the incense
left over from a lunar rain, craters full

of something other—

something that resembled
the smell of ash and snow,

the movement of your hands,

the sound of two trombones      locked
at two’o’clock in the afternoon.

 

 

Published inBlogging & PoemsMy Poems

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