Ars Poetica in an Envelope
What’s hung above is but a nightmare. Don’t
believe its contours. The shape of its body only
looks like you when you stare at it. The end of spring
in motion. You’re there, among the folds of green
walking toward harvest. The smell of ginger,
of every letter in your body forming
the line on which you pray. That dragonfly
satisfaction. And who cares if it’s fleeting?
It aches so good it etches out twilight.
The dim ring, the burst, the rooting. Stay.
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