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Monday, November 21, 2016



A crossroad puzzle, word jumble,
a faint lick, a quick torn breath,
locomotive rain flood of ties,
as today woke sun struck
this golden boxing glove
without a night fist,
the loss of punch,
a recoil reaction
waiting to see.

Moon clouds
were split in two
and evaporated by
light to let the grasses
raise again to dew. In the
purge of a mourning breeze,
drops slump, along stems to dirt.
The fallen are among us, we moisten
hard earth, where night crawlers
retreat from the madness of
the dark tide. A flick of
wonder slips into the
hole; by instinct an
ant surely knows
not to enter.

Bird tracks
in rutty mud go
back on themselves
to retrace a beginning,
the moment when eyes
constricted to filter light;
blood shot, like a road map,
lets the dead center remain free
to imagine there once was a vision.

R Jay Slais, elllo.com

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