small town lazarus

By | 1 May 2019
come back grim man
these streets go rotten without your heavy breath
to refresh;
the crisp silver frost
the halo
on eucalypt
the balm on burning litter
in bins
and the long croak of the crow, his
black flickering
across my window

there where I watch for you
& worry
that even your twig of spring
cannot galvanize me

but see how I seek you still
the crumbling whispers of dry earth
the stunning suicides
of cherry petals

and all the flat moments, too
the carnival
right after
that final somersault
and the same dead-eyed
hours between town A and town B

if I find you can you tell me, will you know exactly
what to do this time?
can you safely say
in the kind of voice
that even our tombstones
will strain to hear?

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