Old Town Ruins

Woman in tea leaves teaches me to hold
my chin toward sunlight. Her lime eyes,
bronze face are a flower beaming,

breathing in the warmth, shuffling
star-studded cards with chipping arms
she used to soak in rhododendron

and saline water. These bones will rise
to love you again, or sculpt new
ragweed. Slow saving, ask why

the suffering lasts—far too many
bodies scared to go to the lake and I,
in the morning  haze drift above gray

waves—Take driving away: siphon
turning around life, but there’s no purer
loneliness than picking up, glide away…

Now I’m the one dousing the same
mixture on my eyes, lighting a match.
But I can’t see the difference between

stung veins and the palm fronds–they
carry the same green threads to tie my
fingers to, all the pain to poison intuition.

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