In the White Noise of Elegy
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“Deep beneath the waves, white-winged birds of May
Run from hollow hills, walk into the night.”
Her pale face is voided antiquity,
a paper-thin line
fallen fresh
from flowery fallacy
to hardwood floor, coiled
cold & blue in landing;
words, like little
droplets of April rain,
a distant deluge
of drought parsing orange
Hemerocallis petals
trenching
around her.
To see it unfold.
Bent at the altar,
Spring’s forgotten daughter can’t.
Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2019
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