The weight of years
all collapsed and broken in the yard,
left to corrode in a ruinous winter rain
between many draping stalks,
all stuffing-sprung and leaking
days months hours like black-tipped toxins,
to ferment along the crumbling
banks of the drained and fallow stream-bed,
evaporates to fine dust when touched,
yet lingers like a hand pressed against
a curve of shoulder at the blue hour.
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