Saturday, January 2, 2016

sadness knocks on the door.

not the vicious, horned thing that bent me in the middle, 
made me howl with grief. it is dry, 
it is the ache of sitting in a place that
no longer exists, pictures of fragile moments, i imagine them
in my grandmother's cabinet like figurines, 
the vast empty of a January corn field, sadness knocks
out of politeness only, i have been 
expecting him. 

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