is and isn’t in the
pale yellow light of early morning
while she licks the frost from his eyes
no ghosts,
no sleeping children,
no sound of softly closing doors
back yard shadowed and seen from
a 2nd story window, bones trapped
in mud,
october flowers held tight in shades of
grey and brown and she calls it
love but she’s bleeding
he says nothing
and means it
this is the wisdom of his father
laid bare
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