the fern molts, but its alien shoots grow fuzzy in their own mulch
his clothes lie in the doorway, a puddle of time, all the days he's worn them
fruit flies harass the window herbs, sometimes my face, and I don't even have the bitterness to mind
I gather the tea mugs, clinking, checking them for oracles
Keep moving through the dust galaxies,
but my heart always runs ahead, keeping time
in a safe thought far from here.
nov 3, 09
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