Archetype of Memory
The trees are wet and so the world
seems to shudder with silence taking
on a new name. This is an image of sadness
old as stone. But I believe this is the way you
cook vinegar out of the room; this is what stars
find under their beds when mother steps out.
This rain is polish that slows down day like an old dog
tumbling toward a toy. You can find me in it always a little
hungry, sometimes thinking about a herd of beasts
trotting through muck to slaughter. None of us sees
wounds that have always been there and I see
inside me, even now, none marbling.
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