six poems after Sarashina

the hare knows better
than to fall in love
with the fox. why
don’t I have
the same instinct
for self-preservation?

gray clouds, swollen and
dull with rain,
hoard their water.
just so my eyes
withhold their
sullen tears.

iron-loving metals –
ruthenium, palladium, platinum –
are sucked deep into
the earth’s core. my
greedy heart swallows up
its resentment.

this last blast
of late summer heat
is oppressive,
lowering. we all
dream of winter. yet
when it comes,
I will miss summer

the morning dew
lays lightly on the grass,
scanty as the tears
upon my pillow.

seagulls cry
overhead, and my wildness
cries with them.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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