Wednesday, July 16, 2014

the petrichor of what is lost

sun and rain that hiss equally as they stoop
their equivalent rainbows on the grit, washing
into the heather scoops, and thereafter

through the smoke of this he walks away
—rain and sunlight that carve new
ruts to the past in his face

breathe in, and think
of how the mind-camera will pan and pan back

then be still as a moonlight hare
in the scent of yourself

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