iced teleology

for something like a purpose
she set out, wondering —
a doe among
the buzzards and the wolves

i met her on the corner of
eleventh and erasure —
the one who gives
can still be one who culls

for she’d learned from the undergrowth,
a rustle in the Vedas,
the cold of iron
too tight to her skin

and i had learned from atrophy,
and some from Paul McCartney,
but not enough for her
to let me

in

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