originally published in Morning Fruit Magazine
I.
beside the blackberry bush
below a soft film of dusk
as the thrush whistles,
we sit to wash our wounds.
II.
each star is unpinned
and the fledgling dawn ascends,
as we shed the gauze
and once more put bleeding foot
after bleeding foot
on the dandelion trails.
III.
the butterfly flits
and lilies quiver in the breeze
as we return at eventide,
paupers limping
through the indifferent beauty.
