divination by predicting weather change or reading the future strength and
direction of the wind
Along the road’s pitch, a token of yellow moths—the auburn
river’s warning tool— electricity
between wing and crescent, where
reeds open the mailbox’ flag. As for the matter
of your father’s death. I observe a signet ring lower
into the dim. I signal in conscious dream
that day’s influence where I crossed into a calm
holding his hand— what bereavement became—a percussion
of bullets bore his chest
in the faithful matter of betrayal. No more ledgers.
But a bowl’s moss and mixed grain, a morning
without generation, a narcoleptic close of eye like envelopes.
Once I stopped talking. Once I was love’s weak redundancy.
Did I not say no? I did not say yes.
My hair undoes the lake’s ether.
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