Sadness, After Li-ShangPeter Shippy
Sunset erases pledges and her footprints. The snow-twitch slants the orange roof slats. The third watch bell complains, here in Syracuse. My wife’s devotion is far-flung. She has chosen the pug-faced flowers of our rank village, her brother’s gossip, the barn cats that left dead jays on her yellow porch, her mother’s gravestone, and her father’s dull jokes over the glam of my posting. I choose to finish this envoi in hare blood which will thicken as it falls from the Jim Brown Bridge and into the salmon’s mouth.
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