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dazmb May 2015
Axe handles
hew wood
to a seasoning stack.

Yet a hunting horn
still chases me relentlessly.

How old
- how cold I got
so quickly.
dazmb May 2015
childhood grief
the sun lingers on
and the house smells
of someone walking home
I reach for my mother’s arms
in sorrow and safekeeping
dazmb May 2015
out in the tundra
there is never
the gentle end
you long for
just eye teeth
that pursue you
for a glint of sky
deep in the bone

— The End —