A Wound Has No Direction

By | 1 November 2019

A flock of dark birds through the trees
emerge at the other side
of where you were.
It’s far back when
you first broke me in.
It’s impossible to
remember it all,

though that was what I’d wanted then,
or so you’d told me. Better off dead
sonorous phrase, a wave in my inner ear,
which will not wane even as it enervates.
The weathervane, or weather-cock,
creaks as it goes round, round
in the wind.

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