not revered, but used to feed a head.
I can’t reconcile!
I can’t reconcile!
not revered, but used to feed a head.
I can’t reconcile!
I can’t reconcile!
not in the crisp October field.
not in the sun-slashed oak.
not in the lines or the spaces between lines.
not in my own face when it’s blue-midnight beaten
with a hot magenta mouth.
not in the photo an old classmate posted
of kudzu vines in the nearby city.
not anywhere! not anywhere!
if I try to conceive of it there,
conceptually it’s limp, it’s tired, it’s pale.
I recall the general form of its taste, but the defining edge is missing.
(I think there may have been someone who once spoke to me-?)
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