Thursday, November 13, 2014

EVERLASTING

Deep 
in the November of your enduring 
mindthere's a tree;

an imaginary one
whose craggy limbs—nearlybare
already—currently

sit—
picked swift-
and
perfectly clean—by hosts

of rapacious dark
scavenger birds—
each heedless 

one 
of which—somehow
now broods  

still
and satisfied—
it appears—by the mere dimmest


ulcerating
intimations of next year.

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