moribund

In the half-light, a distant memory

creates a second kind of time,

as the circulation system of grief

extends in branches over

leaves scattered in the mud.

Across fields and behind lights,

packages are opened and smiles exchanged,

while, in this place,

even the possibility of connection seems

illusory and beyond reach.

The clouds swirl in circles,

the day dies,

and the viewer inches closer

to following it

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