Blogging & Poems, My Poems

It Ends With Three.

And the hands begin floating

out in the open—

all fingers

like predisposed tiger lilies.

*

In the end, there is water

hung over the rafters

like long sticks, like limbs,

*

and there are birds

lining the doorway.

You sleep in your bed, unaware

of the predetermined eyes

of the young—

then, you dream of me

until nothing walks

but sand.

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