Some kinds of apocalypse hide in pockets—rubble blinking in the sunlight where the glacier melted back. When she said it clearly—It’s over— the blood in me surged and emptied simultaneously.
In the shadow of a cedar tree that gave you / sleep, one summer, one summer when all responsibilities / seemed to die (or so you dreamed)—water lilies / in a nearby pond, arms languishing at your side. . . .
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