Wednesday, June 1, 2016


Flowers bleed up
through dirt
colored mirrors not
done reflecting.

old homes and lost gardens long muted
not one stick of wood left
mark where their faithfully service

Maybe a crumbled concrete step here or there,
chimney brick and couple of lost laundry line posts rust away,
feet first.

Excepted by these bulbed blossoms
chanting old address numbers in code to each other,
over and over with each spring and fall.

This was where you lived

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