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Monday, December 19, 2011

December


December

We observe the morning air,
the great green ghost that hangs,
the wispy twist so somber now
between the branches gray.

The cutting cry of ashen birds
that dip and dive with wind
sew lines between our black wool coats
like spiders webs that sing.

There was a feeling in my throat,
once raw and round like fire,
it used to burn me inside out
but now it's flat and cold.

Oh friend, I see you through the fog,
your tall and gangly build,
the birds all say what I cannot:
our love has long since spoiled.