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Our Widowed Mother

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In winter’s eye
We purl and wheeze
The hiss of tripping
gales.
In summer’s throat
We scuttle and simper
On pavement black with
boils.
In fall’s whittled nose
We furrow and quail
Beneath the aching of
boughs.
In spring’s etched palm
We gaze and sidle
On murmuring greens and
blooms.
In day’s pursed lips
We whisper,
In night’s cocked ears
We squeal.
A pock upon the earthen silhouette,
A fine mote grasped within a tendril,
An ebb in the ever-cresting prolix.
A downy wing clasped in the
Coils of its loamy wires.
A cyst upon the sinews.
A sore upon the soldered
perpetuity
Of our widowed mother.




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