the marveling

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One day somebody will catch me

below a brick tower

with my right palm and forehead pressed

against cobweb to rectangles of

flaking red, churned purple caught

mid-roil, crisped sienna

turned mirage of tree above water,

melted chocolate,

char from abandoned fire—

 

Somebody will glance at the wildflower weeds

bunched in a tiny bouquet in my left palm,

a blade of grass tying them together,

and say to me,

It’s time you got serious about your life.

Love, I’ll reply mid-marvel,

What ever made you think I wasn’t?

 

 

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