HUMILIATION

CHRISTOPHER LOCKE

 
 

April returns, and you
find yourself lost under
mountain pine, gin-tipped
pikes shagged green and harmless.
A recitation of loneliness, lips
counting the rings of headless
old growth. God fills the clouds
with his absence, boughs
steeped above you in halting
crush, unreachable as the corn
flower sky ringing with your bargain
at forgiveness, acceptance;
the ache of a cold bloom.

 
 

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