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  • R.T.

What One Might Assume of Loss


A deep abysmal abode

to lay down the trenched pump;

where the pump flows blood to

My mind of the wind whistling

in my ears.

When you notice what's vacant, a home,

is when you realize too

that loneliness is the least of worries--

memories never leave, and never fade.


And for when the ground does quake:

a chasm torn below; and within it

the graves of all those before who wrote

in dreams of black roses in photographs void color--

Clamber up towards the squawking buzzard,

lone upon the ledge, peering down with raven eyes;

It hungers for the archaic carnation

in my body's undecided disposition.