An angry nerve
Requires these allowances
For silence,
For emptiness.

We indulge
The need to retreat
From human eyes.
Wake the deer,
A gray face
Guards the ridge.

Five days
Have turned
This hiding place
To a gallery of
Brown shadows.
And this is the openness
We love —
The space of alone.

It makes all the difference.

In the season
Of disguise,
We cannot bear to hide.
But the rain comes
To wash away

All the faceted
Illusion hangs
In a million drops
From black branches.

And a sunrise chorus
Becomes hands
That know
Just what and how
To touch
To erase
These scribbled tensions.

Every mile
Draws out
Accumulated poisons,
And tired eyes
Rest in the contours
Of an empty bowl.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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