there are distances
memory and rainlight
leave
black-eyed Susans
bronzing
along the culvert road at dusk
to have loved differently
less for comfort
than for those rare moments
you answered so easily
as if certainty
had never injured you before
maybe
between them, agony
could almost pass for composure
it was one of those evenings when
your honesty
grew easier to admire
than to believe
because some part of me
kept waiting for your voice
to arrive unchanged
a lost art, maybe
to take a free hand
with it
and plow my own channel
the ability to distinguish
between hesitation
and the first signs of departure
until my body, gradually
begins agreeing to it
foxglove in the damp wind
picking up the scent of my dying
beside the broken irrigation pumps
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