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RC deWinter

salt garden


your roses

grow in night’s chamber

   in the pale


of a sullen moon   watered

by the secret tears 



   lying alone   shed

in the hours

between frost

   and the budding of the first

mayflower   you missed


spring   never

gave me those roses

   my sorrow

birthed acres

of limp willows   leaning in

the disapproving


light of that

same moon   my voice drowned

the music

of the spheres

   i am silent now   throat torn

hands empty   waiting


for a song

   transparent   on the

tongue of the

wind   or a

word    arising in the smoke

of a sudden dream

Brett Stout Broken_Hands_Converge_A_Brea
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