At the end of the world
I want you to stop worrying
about survival and start

collecting– which of the striking
geometric colors will you
harvest first? As power-lines

collide, I think of how they
used to hang men this way: loops
of black cable, moonlight,

and you (not fleeting). Willow
full of sighs, find the beige
box full of scribbles you meant

to tell him, keep forgetting.
I wish there was as easy a way
to forget his rush, dark gaze,

green threads to tie to, spool
out like a kite. Even when
his body is gone, his name

lingers with the loam, not fully
buried beneath all the memories
he tries to hide–Un-trust us

with gray eyes: we devour
the empathetic, brave, and open.
Watch for the hunt, moon-eyes, soft fangs…

It starts once the savior switches
forms: topiary skull garnished
in daisies, but nowhere to lay his head.


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