The november rains
Pour down into the foggy
Plains b’low hidden sun.
The faux-jade apple
On the faux-mahogany
Desk. Are these hands real?
I cannot name the
Stars more ancient than I am
With lights eclipsed now.
The trees grew orange-red,
The others stayed green-yellow,
The trunks look the same.
The palm-reader’s map–
Like redwood’s interior—
Are circled with age.
The ice flows slowly
Rising while the dying coals
Fade slowly–a chill.
Electricity,
The eclectic erasmus,
Is pulled from the gut.
Hope, the arrowhead,
Can only be fired with
Patience’s pole attached.
The deer, the forest’s
Ghosts, wander in the ruins
Made of lumbered wood.
I see the clouds painted in
The pearly-pink sky
Under a gold sun.
My eyes, the shutters,
Pull close and drift away like
canadian geese.
Hi Thomas. This lovely. Nicely done 🙂
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