Today the sky was spoken open by the birds.
Clouds laced the edges of the lot
where my Honda rolled in reverse,
frost terse and steely on the windshield.
You were a fawn this morning.
I the roe, he the buck.
I have been thinking words are useless.
I have been thinking bomb and blech and nightmare.
Fawn, your hoof
A cotton sock stippled yellow and blue.
And you woke, steeped in morning,
two larks pulling wide
the corners of your mouth.
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