Four months of sadness
enough to move
just one more step
up the hill past the creek
where they threw two suitcases
out a car window
planting blue and yellow
weeds in clay
or a story
in these tired eyes
still looking up
to see the moon.
Pacing herself
a metronome
sounds
the floor
of her bog
of a body
cattails tickling
an ear
where that
conch shell
flows
red whispers
to the sea.
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