Dropped

A single night offers
this whole new category
of thought —
something to work over.

Seek the songs,
the stories that point
toward the right reactions —
and struck dumb,
I am full of
question.

She puts his hands,
his mouth and body
in a box —
treasures to save for hollow days.

Then she swallows up the keys.

Where is the box
to save against
my own?

I am about the fogged morning —
the waking and making of daylight,
however clouded.

In the pines outside
the open window,
a lone owl calls.
And there is none to answer back.

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About Emily

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

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