by Michael Palmer
What time
this open door Her
buried eyes averted
bitter end
Small chance holds
when all else would have us running
fired from this
Stop pacing
Stop sulking
How long do we have
Not long enough
Bury this truth with your pride
together
beneath the tree in the yard with blossoms
Red
and black
red again
shining white
This life will take us fighting against it
But they yet remain
Those hands
and fingers so bare and frosted
quite unusual
more real than the walls the open door
and air between alive with misdirection
a magician’s game
the truth yet hidden with each new telling
each fresh face
pulled down and turned away
pushed up and to the left of here
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