Aspen Eyes

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In a dream, I drive past
a splintered tree

that is you and I
wail.

A quaking aspen with
her limbs felled.

Somehow I know this
is a past life

where night reveals
herself in negatives.

Behind whale blue
hides a bloodbath sky

your myoglobin womb
a moss cocoon

and I am an unborn
seedling sowed

from your demise.
In every life

except this one

you die so
I live.

You lurk alive
in my waking hills,

aspen eyes unblinking
in the dawning air.

Even in dreams,
I cannot drive.

Spirits sprint in rearview.
The trees exhale their grudges

blowing blame
in the direction of wildfire.

The Secret

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I lick the bluebells by the bus
and all the hens crow.

Where is the secret
God owes me

Sharp and sheathed
and silver to bless me.

A worker switches on
the light in my chest.

Bone white glare
of the cold abattoir.

Among us he strolls
across mounds of debris:

Five floors of rust,
hook, shadow.

Outside, crows tread
the afternoon haze.

A freight truck shrieks
its brakes too late.

How pretty the sight,
He says.

A wall of red fates dangling
by the heels in wait.

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