Well, phoo, this was meant to be a snapshot, though it went a bit interior at the end, perhaps I'll follow the assignment better next time!
Best,
Rebecca
Rebecca Seiferle
www.thedrunkenboat.com
Each hour they grow fewer, the splayed
lipped, white drift of the apple blossoms
falling to wind, late frost, and 90 lumens
of the brilliance of paper falling, shredded
to the floor, even incised with the black burning
of someone else's sacred defoliation, love is not
transitory enough but snail-like shapes
self to shell, or hooks like scorpion tail
in crevice or niche, long past luck or life.
Who wants to love forever? Love should fall
like the apple blossoms, die at the kiss
of a bee, learn to perish, come to an end.
7:51 pm Farmington, NM
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