the roots have been severed
as dirt hits my face.
gravel that flies in anyone’s path
when pedestrian anticipation
and the calm of linens in a miniature loft
do leave us forgetting
that perhaps it’s a deed
of passion’s authenticity.
an apple core blanched
with an immunity to chemical change.
can and do exist
on bridges that laugh
at the pettiness of bottlenecked highways.
he loves her.
but all is pulled unbeknownst
to the woman in the beige trench coat.
a suitcase clasped, and papers brittle
with a squirming temptation
to throw up her hands,
and say, “I’m done.”
wander for love.
the things we see two blocks from home.
fingernails of soot, roots unbraided
and a scowl to the sky,
for April comes.
I shake my head and remember
that I actually carried pockets.
but never was I quite careful,
as to where I handled cash.
foreign marigolds lay.
legs and all, maimed in evening’s quiet.
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