Finis Hour

Lisa Russ Spaar

Loaded, lexical, plot’s curtain

drops. Crimson. Victorian.

The End. How apply this to the fawn,

fendered & felled overnight, now turgid,

a tiny table overturned at road’s edge?

The tissue that binds us

beyond the limits of narration.

What ends in these matters

is not mere words. Vultures disassemble,

verge, then settle.

I drive by. Postpone. Defer.

But closely read sky’s dilation, O Fabulator.

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