Wednesday, June 1, 2016


Flowers bleed up
through the dirt,
colored mirrors
not done reflecting.

Old homes and lonely gardens,
not even one stick of wood left
to mark their faithful service.

A crumbled concrete step here or there,
bricks and couples of laundry line posts
left to rust away, feet first.

Random bulbed blossoms
chant old address numbers
over and over to each other
each spring and fall.

This was where you lived

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