When Parch Meant Thirst

in these hills
the awakened divine
rouse to chorus

not so unkind
that you cannot lift your legs
and move on

sallied forth to each corner coroner
by every winter wind
unwound beneath the unfurled

to the memory of last night

drunk and standing in front
of a dark, empty house
weighted by bags
and the rain;

if we are alive,
if fortunes are divulged
on tiny scraps of paper
found within a twisted

“today, you will find something you have been looking for”

an implication
that something may have been lost
an implication
that something may have been desired

what does it matter now
if the world is bipolar,
we inhabit the same fault lines
torn by north and a south

only this —

what is remarkable
after nights of clouds
is the moon overhead,
a verging birth

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