1667
5.206
25.vii.24
two poems
the writing runs
together
these are the adventures in time
under the day’s skin
a bird
in my midst
a sky
will I?
will I be the ghost here traded from time
whom the world heals over, past?
spun from the cycle to hang out to dry
I know
the death of this much made me
it’s winter where the bones are
nor as we live and breathe
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