On a burnt blistering day….


Often when cowering inside a tainted

Day We just circle the burnt blistering

Of it and scrub, scrape, wash and clear

Out the grime, arrange the atrophy

Yes even it can be salvaged: it often

Falls into a bowl of words or a candle


Of the strangest shine of clarity beckoning

And then you find woe’s brittle bones and

Inside and around them a bronze plant is

Putting out seedlings of a surprising border

surrounding that rank, rabid, pus of spoilage

Like a soft, white, clean linen bandage to

welcome the bright hopeful blossoming


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