The Weight Is Lifted
The weight is lifted
and there rests a wooden beam, a bar, a balanced space between
A morning and a night.
A sleeping hand lays exposed on its battered frame
and a body is hidden as
Wisps of hair attempt to run along the field by a winded saddle.
Parts never moving and others never there.
Always able and flirting with waiting here in-between,
while the yellow paint chips stick and scatter on a sleeping cat
you overfeed this morning.
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