Soft death has lifted
me up to birds
in sycamores–
brown-red from cold.
Fall creeps in,
snow falls inside my belly;
frost bitten and brittle.
Cracking brows of old
poems rewritten with
envy, falling orange,
lie naked. Wings have
attached themselves
out of pity for
flightless creatures.
Leave fall for rivers
and frozen sculptures.
Flowers blooms
from fingernails.


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