Morning,
and the light is
laden
with meaning.
Caulking
the walls
warming
the trees.
Overhead,
dark clouds lower
big-bellied
and dark
with
potential.
Watch
the light trace the ominous
dark
in a halo.
Watch
it outline the empty spaces.
Watch
it fade in a flurry.
Sometimes
the light entices
promising
intoxication
deeper
than wine’s
headache
sluggishness.
On
my knees
I
dig a small hole
and
drop a smooth bulb in.
No
hairline roots
to
burst the earth
like
a crack
streaks
a mirror
before
it shatters.
Pat
the dark earth around,
sticky
rot scent
caking my fingers.
Imagine
an arrow of red rising
to
unfurl in a perfect
cupped
poppy.
Drunk,
and not with wine.
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