Unsay

Slow feet, fast hands
make the single,
St. Valentine’s cowgirl boots.

The fever takes me and I
wait for coyote haunt
and owl time.

The great shift back to one.

Betrayed,
I cannot unsay.

But we learn it —
what restraint has to teach.
Let gods or angels take it up.

We are low,
but we aim for consistency —
draw it inward —

and the elusive summer
still sings in the night.
In the night, it still sings.

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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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