I don’t pretend to know
the words that pierce
your bark.
Wings in the face.
Hawks in the heart.
Close my eyes,
wait for the fall
and the leaves—
bleed that maroon
red.
Sooner or later,
you come back
to bed; we wait
for the impotent
sun.
I don’t pretend to know
the reasons you protect
your heart.
But I often pretend
it doesn’t mark me.
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