you come to understand
the bent latch
the rusted nail
the last lingering edge of glass
in the window pane
looking out on what once was
it has drowned in a pond
where rotted trunks now rise
out of gray tessellations of cracks
inhabited by tiny black beetles
awaiting the orgy of winter
a blue racer basks in dwindling sun
it has fed upon the young of a mouse
that scurries about
puzzled with absence
this is just the way things are
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