Makes All the Difference at the End

The circumstances by which

she might know me,

are poisoned ears,

are pieces of a whole,

are heavy knees

at the edge

of a forest fire’s

throat.

 

She writhes:

scared to move,

completes a scar

on the ground like

coral scrapes on the

bottom of boats,

leaving deep furrows

(down a leg and

on a heart;

it wavers, too).

 

A weed eater coughs dust,

spreading bugs,

partial prints, and

hollow-point bullets

on a path.

It sorts its affairs;

while I’m surreal enough to

hock eyes of black-end burnt

to workers in the

sand traps

with chaser

beers.

 

It comes in blinks and whispers,

roofed in shakes and shivers;

wherever the blessed be,

it will surely go—

But not without her favor,

and that, makes all the difference

at the end.

 

The circumstances by which

she knows me

are probable truth,

are callused lies,

are phantom legs

still bleeding

at the

root.

 

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