if i had a million words
they'd still blow away like dust,
each second chained
to the last one and the next one,
moments impaled on a collector's pin,
scrutinized and recorded in careful notes
that crawl like a snail beneath the ivy
leaving an iridescent sheen
until the rain comes, if it ever will.
the streets will still be carnivals
and butcher shops,
i'll keep casting a hook for the moon.
the mulberry trees
where i found my mother weeping
will flourish, then fall and rot.
i might still imagine a table
with two cups that sit,
a drop of coffee drying on one
where it ran down from the lip,
and a fly wandering
near a bowl of raw sugar
exploring a pale crumbling lump
like she'd found heaven.
and those aren't
my hoofprints
in the mud.
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