She’s waiting to be held

She sat with her breasts poured out over

a hill of meadow with its teacup flowers

and starburst leaves,

wondering how many steps to moss

and how many arms could hold her

across an ever-anxious landscape,

browning and burning.


If there were wings in the offing,

such questions would be laughable

but with an angry earth,

she wants to feel held

before the end.

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