12:40pm
I return to discarded fragments of poetry from The Timid Wild
dreams of twisting decay
corpses full of splinters and
chipping bark
we know not what we've
lost in winter
until it does not return
until vines and blooms
consume its fragments
reclaim its parts to
create a new whole
-------
Wood Duck Pond again
placid water
waves like fabric under the breeze
but holds tight to itself
remains solid
how many quantifiable drops
might rest here as one body
perhaps my own form feels
scattered as a thunderstorm
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