SEMI-NUMB WEEKS
the weather grinds violent,
hasn't broken a sweat
or a nail
or a smile
& all her scattered teeth
are intact¯
she swivels her dial
like a demon owl, she is turning
to look us in the eye & fix us there.
but she isn't all cold¯it wasn't yet november
& she'd wept the streets into tributaries:
she was observing
the creep rush of cell-fire
in a maple, it was being burnt
with slow artifice, without chemicals,
a beauty born of a bright-sick rainbow.
& it rained for days
when the moon rushed up
from the falling tree.
KS
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