Time
I savored the August sunset
like a spoon full of sherbet,
orange, curved and cool beneath my eyes.
But night air rides in on a train whistle
and rusts the horizon-spoon against my tongue.
Leaves turn aside,
belly up in submission
and wilt away into winter.
There is darkness in January thunder -
in pockets held tight to my hip
and you'll find death
in the winter rain of my chest.
Poetry
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