ather the grooves and tines in gray bouquets, line up the fragments to make a patience. Collective—a den of sticks, an alphabet, memorial. Crows calling from the cypress, a gray afternoon in—laying out a mandala from the detritus. To balance the circle. He was a new brother and not used to the other yet. Today’s confession:
Kindling
May 30, 2023
1 minute
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