Listen:
Listen:
the wind is pulling itself through the grass.
this is you moving on
Smell the cedar smoke rising.
Hear, also, the wood bursting
open to the song of decay.
Quick and hot
(Not how it began
in dank worm homes)
and not soft like your sobbing shadow sitting.
Taste this:
your mouth pooling with sleep.
Let it take you.
Copyright © Zoe Nye | Year Posted 2016
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