Ancient of Days, old friend, no one believes you’ll come back.
No one believes in his own life anymore.
At the earth’s edge,
Unfaithful at last, splotching the ferns and the pink shrubs.
They sing songs, and their fingers blear.
And here, where the swan hums in his socket, where bloodroot
And belladonna insist on our comforting,
Where the fox in the canyon wall empties our hands, ecstatic for more,
Part eye, part tear, unwilling to recognize us.
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