Aug. 14, 2021, 6:17 a.m.

bosforescent

wonder systems

grass in summer hibernation

what haunts this field of deadgold grass
isn't the moon's silvering touch
or wildfires on the edge of anticipation
nor even its once and future greening:
it's me, stompcrackling about
geistnapping as a vapor
as a texture of being touching down again
as a memory from three thousand miles away.

but what haunts that memory isn't me,
it's me.

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