the Sun hangs low with wanton light
it warms the flat face of a rock
strange brown flies buzz by
Black-eyed Susan's drying petals
long shadows
dead Daisy stalks bobbing in the breeze
I saw a woman
my eyes upon her every inch
they still remembered
what she forgot
her fingers on her awkward flesh
they ran along a strap
perhaps she'd worn
a misplaced dress
the Sun atop a rough-hewn ridge
water rippling toward the southern shore
I used to ask to read her work
it's still too cold to swim
the blue vein of her inner arm
a sideways slidden ring
will it be a Wednesday
or a Thursday?
I am grain spilling from a carted sack
wilted bells upon limp leaves
I am not afraid of hornets
white scar of a contrail
clipped fingernail moon
where does the distant pilot drift?
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