There Crack the Twigs

bread crumbs and grey stones purged
from pocket depths, n’ twigs are
no match for her rubber

in dusty chalk sky, winds carry her
scent without rainin’ those
pins of regret,

fated to apple’s bite at twilight’s
sharp strike, a hush brought on by
fangs in neck suggest a halt
in fawn’s breath

baited, for another,
or posing as a prime
portrait of

alas, gold weaves its
worries through her cold,
tussled hair,

tragic to think, she never
caught my ripe stench
from o’er there



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