the spline of my fingers find
the hollows, a persistent torsion
against loss,
subtle gears winding a delicate intrusion,
a flower's primness out of season.
Small paper dreams
crumple and die in spring's convection.
the empty bones of loneliness
have pinioned my hearts
small bird,
wingtips trapped in the
soft crevices of a life's
shifting tectonics. An aborted
migration, innocent of flight.
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