Openness: darkest aspect of distance,
the longing and hypotheticals needing
erasure–Old news that still clings,

breaking news about an urn on the shelf.
Put a hex on each other, twine
through our heathen cores.

I still see you when I try to breathe,
still see the windows of your aching,
dusted sills where the finch doesn’t

perch. Her wings the same golden
hue,  nothing’s changed, but now
she’s gnashing her beak, soaring

over wild fires, gathering whirlwind
vibrations, stray emotion, fuel
for nesting elsewhere, without a curse…


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