Near that river, on the road I use for running,
I stop to study a freight car marooned
in an empty field, its open doors
framing my childhood home.
Statued next to it, a mule. Stark
& widowed of her industry.
Instead of antlers, a hummingbird crown.
Instead of monument, animation.
My dead appeared audienced
in the road-side live oak, botanical
in their lament, dripping
& woolly as an old woman’s hair.
Atavistic molecules of caution
snailing down my cheek glisten
from elsewhere. What to divine
in this warping of time? Above me
the blue light & goat milk moon,
suggestions to be elemental,
catch the wind like ash.
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