poetess

each of these years
piled upon the last
and upon the rest
lain below, compressed
in rusted-spade shovelfuls
of cheek salt and bone dust
sediments
shifting downward
fallen ‘tween the May-soil’s stones
a kiss, bestowed
upon memory’s torn-corner sepia
as each June love, passed by–
falling further into the flatness
a slow-spiral flutter
nearly imperceptible
tho known too well
shrinking away
from brevity’s tall-sky reminder
as her white-skin hunger
feeds at the graves
and at the cradles
never sated
time, she is a temptress
loved, as is a mistress
the supreme huntress
and the most poignant
poetess
tho– the sum of a life
that, which she’s left us
to muse
is less– than its
totality

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