Saturday, December 21, 2013


The curious clues come to you. On pale blue and white,
the cloud ring's unfinished. I can't wish it, what contrite
letter it might
                     spell. I miss a yellow smudge of light.
It lived where indigos went, until it fell from night,
one hard bringer of the soft-hearted news.
                                                                A squatter
spider, yes she was squatting. The moon's youngest daughter,
she couldn't hide from her, her appetites, her eagerness
for flight. She wished what I couldn't, and left no meager threads.
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