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By C.L. Liedekev

I think it’s November
And it’s not ok to die
I see that first lick of frost
and expect the nor’easter
pouring over the front
of the building - a child
lost in its scream.

I wake to the hover
of my breath like long
sections of worms slowly
returning to the tangle
of dirt. Gone, but their
strangle stays, frozen
as a bullet hole, as dead rope.

But the window is different
this year, the elm
leaves are different,
their colors more orange,
more red straying against
the blemish of car-dirt
snow. Beauty once spoiled,
beauty once ignored. These
memories melt through my hands.
I can’t wipe away the stain.

© All poetic works displayed on this website are copyright of the original author. All rights reserved.


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