Already the spring lilacs are failing,
in pieces and chunks, the way rust
ruins metal everywhere.
It doesn’t take much of that before
she begins not to care. Which makes her
want to rip the flawed flowers
maliciously from the bushes, seeing how
wind and butterflies and blossoming
can be confused with feeling.
Love lies on the mountain with calm
and counterweight. In the center,
with the presence, in the sunlight.
—poem from American Poetry Review 28.5, here
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