Cycles

Black sod is what’s tangible, we’ve been trying
for centuries to touch the sky. Use loam
to steal imitations of the sky’s kiss: already

too much to keep craving. Instead, stir around tea,
pray for pentacles or blue smoke. What do you
feel right now?– Sun is whirring, whoring out

the vast space between us …Was there a pattern
to the stars that night? The reel I last saw you in
is a blur, choppy: murmurs of cicada warning,

fan rattling from the porch ceiling, some string
of lights falling behind your dark face… Look down,
think of the doe that used to wander the woods behind

your house, wonder if it was lucky enough to get out
of nimbostratus fog—Or was that doe actually your
hands wandering every night, now finally letting go?

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