the back garden is a liar.
it waits until we’re not
looking to kidnap the sky.
don’t run. there’s singing
on the wind now, foxtail pines
& oh cruelty what did she look like
in sleep. you’re under my spell.
stop running.
\ \
so they call this prayer formation –
pull at her blood, dark
weeds at the root
– I call it my least favorite part of the game.
/ /
do you remember how you came to
me a fistful of berries, thawing
out under an old moon. now, you beg.
\ \
I keep a smile of hers
pressed in wax, a moment
ready to salt the earth
in me
/ /
hush. there’s no need for schemes
where you’re going. you’re mine.
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