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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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