when
you’re still
IX.
mystery is the complexion
of a February spruce rationing sun
in her numb gully of winter.
it is a sluggish impulse
to jump
into a breached luminosity, of waiting
to taste the salt, instant as struck flint,
in the split bruised lip i grind and dig
between my teeth. i dig and grind, dig
with the knob
of a lost grave-spade and spread
the debris on the threshing floor
and grind and pulverize
and beg
not to fade away
because I know it’s what gets me
from there
to you if I can just
hang
on
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