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116 · Apr 2022
You Changed
sandra wyllie Apr 2022
as the clock on the wall
like the leaves in the fall
caterpillars grow into butterflies
but your change only soaked my eyes

You changed
as the day into night
turned black from all white
women like a pink sunset
but your change left me with regret

You changed
like the ocean tide
as a carnival ride
kernels turn into buttery popcorn
but you only left me in scorn

You changed
from spring to winter
from a mahogany table
to a flat board of splinters
in spring flowers bloom
but your change left me little room
116 · Dec 2018
These Foolish Things
sandra wyllie Dec 2018
These foolish things I say
you read and throw away
mere distractions to you
I fumble with on cue
intangibles of my heart
picked and torn apart
My pride is swallowed whole
Like a lump of black charcoal
Waiting for you to ignite
no spark brings no light
so I shiver in the cold dark
singing malodorously as a lark
hoping you’ll be spurred
by my every word
but you won’t even stir
at each blemish or slur
I think you would prefer
If I took back these foolish things
But I only give them wings
116 · Sep 2019
They Ask You
sandra wyllie Sep 2019
to put vibrators in your
*****, to slap yourself
silly. Next, they’ll be wanting
**** beads. You’ll do anything

to please them so they buy
your books and read your
words. Poetry doesn’t sell the way
*** does. You’ll do anything

for your art. But inside it tears
you apart that you can’t be as lucky
as others are. But still you know
they’ll never bring you down. Still

you know despite the loneliness
and the hurt that you are
deserving of being heard. You are
deserving of respect. You’re not

there yet but attain to be. And maybe
you’re in good company with others
who have exploited themselves to
get what they want. Those who’d sell their
soul to the devil for their art.
116 · Jul 2019
Where Have You Been
sandra wyllie Jul 2019
Where have you been all my life? And what are you doing NOT pursuing this???
Are you too practical, too afraid to face that you're something else?
You'd rather have some other guy get the glory, than you, yourself.

Can't you see what I see when I look at you?
I think that the world should get to know you. Stop being a shadow.
Come out of the darkness - enter the light.
Before it's too late. You've only one life.

Where have you been all my life? And what are you doing NOT pursuing this???
Are you too practical, too afraid to face that you're something else?
You'd rather have some other guy get the glory, than you, yourself.

I understand you don't like to take risks. But when you've all this
inside of you how can you miss? Why should another guy get
your best when you deserve the fame? No, isn't right that everyone
doesn't know your name.

Where have you been all my life? And what are you doing NOT pursuing this???
Are you too practical, too afraid to face that you're something else?
You'd rather have some other guy get the glory, than you, yourself.
116 · Jun 2019
You and I Ate the Moon
sandra wyllie Jun 2019
It became our ruin.
We cut into it like a wheel of cheese.
Ate it as if it were made of brie.
And it went down velvety smooth
as a glass of dry vermouth.

After everything was considered
we took it all.
Didn’t leave a sliver.
Poor wretched beings,
having hearts boiled like beans in the stew.

Who knew it could happen to us?
After all the fuss and laboring
of what was
we have nothing to show for it,
except the rind from the transit.
116 · Apr 2023
Spurned
sandra wyllie Apr 2023
like an unhatched egg
pushed out of the nest
to make room for the rest
of the birds
the ones that can't fly
die

like the little runt
that can't catch up
with the rest of the bunch
so he is lost
chasing his tail
in the snow and the frost

like a lover
thrown out the door
for the body of another
with more ******* to explore

like the chubby girl in school
sitting quietly and following the rules
wearing glasses and braces
with greasy hair and acne
tripping over her shoelaces
116 · Aug 2023
Paint the Day a Face
sandra wyllie Aug 2023
two green eyes
trace the cornflower sky
jump in
the cotton-candy clouds

red wine lips
to drink
the sun kissed eclipse
a pearl nose

to breathe
the blooms
a garden grows
lilac perfume

the sweet song
of the robin
this day is calling
me in pirouettes

to brush
the blackened silhouettes
and sprinkled showers
of rainbow confetti

this day
has not a crease
honking
like a flight of geese
116 · Oct 2019
A Spark from a Flint
sandra wyllie Oct 2019
tiny glitter in the soft sand
you have to look closely,
gaze, watch.....
to see what's at hand.
In this vast open space
what's hanging out there
are willow of the wisps
ghostly lightings in the air.
Off the beaten path,
beckoning you to pursue,
hush, hush, come......
follow the nightly stalkers
into realms you never knew.
Over steep cliffs you're hanging,
down torrents of pouring rain.
Billowing clouds of thunder,
Clash! Bang! Clang!
Black wind is blowing you,
Whooshhhhhhhhh
a **** on a weather vane.
But darkness is not a nemesis!
In fact it's a telepathic portal.
If you open up to it
ah, oh, la, la.....
your spirit shall be immortal!
115 · Apr 2019
That Makes You Beautiful
sandra wyllie Apr 2019
It’s not the color of your eyes
but the sparkle in them

It’s not what you wear
but how you wear your smile

It’s not your figure
but how you figure out ways to be nice

It’s not how you hold me
but how you hold yourself in moments
that are difficult

It’s not that I’m crazy
But how I’m crazy about you

Because -
It’s not only the way you look
that makes you beautiful
115 · Mar 2020
It’s Too Deep
sandra wyllie Mar 2020
to go into on the phone. It’s
a thousand knives cutting you
in a padded room that’s sound
proof. No windows or doors. My

God! There’s no floors. They’re
dangling you on a string tied to the
ceiling fan. Then they put it on
the highest speed so that your blood

splatters. And the whole shabam
is a spin and paint like a tie-dye
t-shirt, except it ain’t.
115 · Feb 2022
How Much
sandra wyllie Feb 2022
insults can you hurl
to a green girl
till she is shamed
from all you said
and cannot
remove this stain
you embed?

How much
can you smack her
with the back
of a wooden spoon
till she’s afraid
to leave her room?

How much
can she weep
without wetting her sheets
and jiggling as jello
of the shiny yellow belt
flying down hard
leaving her welts
the size of
a deck of cards
in black and red marks?

How much
can you strip
of her dignity
you make-up-haired witch?
You’re all over her like
a fast-spreading itch.

How much
can she take
till the heart in her
breaks?
till her wings
are shorn?
till she'd better off
not born?
115 · Dec 2021
The Frost
sandra wyllie Dec 2021
on your head
as dandruff, shakes off
in bed. And it falls all over
me as snow on the old oak tree.

The frost
on your lashes
are frozen crystals
from all the years you
cried. They solidified.

The frost
on your lips
have sunken ships. You’ve
icebergs as teeth. You’re breath
an artic blast, even a polar bear
couldn’t fare.

The frost
on your hands
are hockey rinks. Every finger
is an icicle stick. This heart
the puck you bat around. I’m flying
high on the ground.
115 · Nov 2021
The Hurt is Like
sandra wyllie Nov 2021
a blanket of snow
it leaves me cold
so, I lay in it
spreading my arms
as angel wings
spreading my legs
as fish’s fins

The hurt is like
a pizza dough
covered in sauce
I'm lost in
garlic and onions
but I rise as I bake
til my toppings shake

The hurt is like
a hangnail toe
swollen and red
big as my head
I cover it up
in bandages
and stuff it
in my shoe
but it's turning
cobalt blue
115 · Jun 2023
Punch
sandra wyllie Jun 2023
in
to clock.
Head down
to the dock.

Punch
the button
enter the lift.
Punch the D
and make it swift.

Punch
the papers.
Load the trucks.
Catch the vapors.
This job *****!

Punch
Drunk.
He smells
just like a skunk.
I work with
all the lunks!

Punch
out.
Shout Hooray!

Punch
Happy!
The end of
another day!
115 · Aug 2019
We Fell Short of Heaven
sandra wyllie Aug 2019
into a bed of thorns. Got cut
on the blinders we had on. Bled in
paisley accents in cornflower blue.
Cried in July when the latter
showed through, when arms once
again, became roots for the attachment
that extends at its end little nobs of
juniper in clusters. We mustered as
troops all the love that once was
for cornflower blue.
115 · Aug 2023
I Climbed a Thousand Steps
sandra wyllie Aug 2023
and tripped on every rung. And fell
into the slats so hard I burst a
lung. I've hit my head on walls that
pushed to close me in. And through  

the midnight calls threw back
a fifth of gin. My knobby knees have
buckled. My soles have all worn
through. And how the men

all chuckled at scars that I
accrue. The stairway twists and
turns. I cannot see around the bend. I have
my concerns that this all has no end. Every day

I struggle to take a step. And all that I juggle
and still with smile and pep! Some days I just
sit back and watch the folks go by. I'd say
this life's a hoax. We're all just gonna die!
115 · Jul 2019
When the Shit Hits the Fan
sandra wyllie Jul 2019
that’s when you know
where you stand. Never disagree
with them. They
can’t handle a different

opinion. No one cares about
originality. It angers people
to differ. Somehow it threatens their
existence. Good riddance then. I’ll never

be one to agree to hold it together
anymore. I’d rather have it splatter
all over the floor. You can wipe yourself
up in it while I go smoke a cigarette.
115 · May 2023
Rain On Fire
sandra wyllie May 2023
of hailstones throwing
torches
cracking holes
in these back porches.
Dancing crimson
in a prison
of ice.
Shaking tales
as barnyard mice.

The sky is weeping
nectarines.
I stand behind
The back porch screen.
Wind whipping them all
like pinballs in a penny arcade
as I'm sipping lemonade.

Talking heads
these jack-o-lanterns
as I sit behind the curtain.
I carved the faces out myself,
hiding the knife in a book
up on the shelf.

Another night
of fitful sleep and the pain
of butchered sheep.
I'm on the lam.
And cooked just like
the holiday ham.
115 · Aug 2019
Forgiveness is
sandra wyllie Aug 2019
merciful once
questionable twice
farcical thrice
certifiable beyond
115 · Mar 2023
Little Bundles
sandra wyllie Mar 2023
of Juniper berries
with hair flaxen and lips
of cherries turn from emerald
green to purple-black. But once

they turn they do not go
back. Swollen lil' violet orbs wish to
be the next in Forbes. Sharp and clear
with tongue to bite, like aged gin

leave you ****** at night. Hanging
on tailored trees, the fertile seeds
spread as autumn leaves. Food for
the waxwings and thrushes. The painter

airbrushes it on fences and lawns
from dusk till dawn. All are drawn
to the splendor, the sailor's call
the weaker gender!
115 · Oct 2018
Little Stray Hair
sandra wyllie Oct 2018
Little Stray Hair

She had a stray hair that showed up
in the most unusual places. She’d tried to pluck it. But it

popped back up again. She’d tried to bleach it. But it stood out
strong as white against her olive skin. She took a razor

to it and cut herself. The blood ran out. And the very next
day something was sprouting in the same place. So she

tried to conceal wearing turtlenecks. But menopause made her sweat. So she embraced it, even gave it a name. She called

it Bert. It was her little secret. Sometimes she would cut it with a
scissors, if it grew too long. But she became fond of it.  Like a

tattoo she couldn’t imagine life without it.  It was like Cindy Crawford’s mole. After a while it turned beautiful. She grew to love it.
115 · Oct 2022
Shake Him Off
sandra wyllie Oct 2022
like dandruff on my curly hair
or autumn leaves blowing in the air
as lint on my red low-cut sweater
what's all the buzz about some fuzz
all it does is leave my hazel eyes
wetter than last year

Shake him off
like a cold
this is growing old
like sleep
awake to he's a creep!
115 · Sep 2021
Dreams are for those People
sandra wyllie Sep 2021
that hang by a thread and
whistle. They punch through
the ceiling and swim in the sky,
spraying the clouds with red

dye. Looked on as losers
and frivolous folk they use
their reverie to poke holes in
the sidewalk till it sprouts beans

and Christmas trees with lavender,
the kind that makes those mortal men
slur. Be drunk on innocence of
a star that fell from above.
115 · Jun 2021
There’s an Underworld
sandra wyllie Jun 2021
of azure and gold
purple to behold
of flat lying creatures
spotted as the sand
rays of sunlight
dancing in your hand
bubbles and caves
tigers with fins
acrobatic dolphins
no tittle-tattle
only the sound of
a wave or a paddle
head clear
as the water
life is moving
all around
I spy a brain
of coral champagne
waving polyps
looking as fingers
a spikey underwater
porcupine
and the stars here
have arms
I can reach out
and touch
they don't fall
they crawl
on the reefs
the color of
autumn leaf's
115 · Nov 2022
I Burnt This Bridge
sandra wyllie Nov 2022
so, I can walk to the other side
without turning around
to the old sound of the calls
and cries. I burnt it down to the

ground so I'd grow wings to fly beyond
the years that strung my tears with plated
gold and lies. I burned it slowly over *****
and lime. Some days I'd patch it

with memories that didn't rhyme. Then I'd
gussy it up with smiles and mush till it
stuck me like a porcupine. I'd carry
a water bottle with the pain. Drink from it,

then refill with rain. Some days I'd run
toward the flame like a high-speed train,
burning myself again and again.
My pen my wand/my cry my song
in ashes of auld lang syne in every page and line.
115 · Oct 2023
He's a Bean Bag
sandra wyllie Oct 2023
chair, molding around the contours
my body. I sink into him as
the beans swim like a school
of fish sticking together. Making

an impression of my derriere
as I melt like butter into the four foot
cloud of cornflower suede. All set out
and laid like a quilt. Cozy and snug

like a warm glass of milk. And rain
can pitter patter on my window. It doesn’t
matter the darkness of the sky, when I’m
safe inside and dry. As the hands on

the clock fly my eyes grow
heavy. Nothing can keep the sleepers out,
not even a levee! The smell of Christmas
pine stands next to my glass of wine.
115 · Mar 2023
Deep Inside the Cavern
sandra wyllie Mar 2023
a dark house of clay, I turn
into a tavern. Drink the years
and lay down this like a slave. Stalagmites,
my pillow. Head heaving with

heaving billow. A life underground. A stop
in the round. The weathering of this
rock inside walls of chalk. I chip with
fiery chisel, grizzle haired. Carving

hieroglyphics. Noting the specifics
to some passersby. Like trying to catch
a fly in my hand/waiting for him
to land. And clocking his movements. But

seeing no improvement. No windows
or doors. But I've floors to walk,
and echoes to talk back at me.
Lively company!
114 · Jul 2023
A Ripple in a Pond
sandra wyllie Jul 2023
I'm a stone.
Hurled in a hurricane.
A ripple in a pond.
Thrown in from the rain.

Making waves.
I triple.
And reach beyond
his tangled hairy day.

Radiating halo rings.
Burping strawberry bubbles.
To him
a skating fling,

standing scratchy stubble.
Fast water jets.
Sharp bayonets.
As rings in a tree

you can count every
go around.
They all fall back on me,
in a painted poppy scene.

As the blues slam-dunk
the greens
the toad drones.
I'm a stone.
114 · Mar 2023
It's Not Lack
sandra wyllie Mar 2023
of amour. It's self-
preservation. I've grown poor
in spirit. I can't grin and
bear it for another day

It's not lack
of ardor. None have tried
harder than me. But I can't live
a life of make-believe.

It's not lack
of rhythm. With him
for sixteen years, dancing to the beat
of the snap of his fingers. They're now
my triggers.

It's not lack
of fit. I just can't sit with this. I'll miss
him. But the ride is over. I'm not
a leftover.
114 · Feb 2019
Want To Have
sandra wyllie Feb 2019
Skin as moist and smooth as an amphibian
A bite as savage as the great white shark
Legs as fast as a cheetah
A voice as melodic as the nightingales
Colors as bright a Scarlet Macaw
Wings like a red-tailed hawk
Baby I was born to be an animal
But then I could never talk
sandra wyllie May 2019
so, why start now?  We did
our own thing,
which didn’t amount to much, except
happiness. That’s what carried me, when the lights

went out and it was cold outside. That’s what
carried me when I fell headfirst and split,
when I cut my breast, and the madness –
yes over what,

I couldn’t guess. That’s what did it,
but not me in. I gave you everything I had,
which in truth wasn’t much
since I was stunted. But we wrote it up

as we went along. How could we know the end? This time
let’s make a different ending. I always hated endings.
Forget what I said –
about an ending that is.
114 · May 2019
Don't Tell Them
sandra wyllie May 2019
it’s like sleeping.
They’ll be afraid to close their eyes -
that they might not wake-up
that they’ll drift off to become not.
Don’t tell them what lies beyond.
No one can.
Don’t promise them they’ll meet
the ones who have gone and not returned.
Or worse yet -
that the wrong will be punished
in a fiery pit
with a man dressed in horns.
Or they’ll come back
as a bird or a whale or a tree.
What you believe
don’t put upon them.
When they ask
say -
live each moment
as if it were your last day.
114 · May 2024
Year After Year
sandra wyllie May 2024
you stood tall and so strong
from green to red as my thong
raining down your brown capped nuts
gray rats chasing them just like a putz

Year after year
I lay in a bed of rope and cornflower cotton
my youngest son for mother's day had gotten
under your pointed lobed canopy
with a glass of strawberry wine, so happily

Year after year
the scratching of claws
the jay and robin applause
Downy woodpecker drills
such laugh and some thrills

Year after year
you shed your emerald coat
leaves dance in the air as they float
to the soft ground
covering it in a carpet of brown
114 · Sep 2019
I Don’t Play by the Rules
sandra wyllie Sep 2019
I make them up as
I go along. I bend the ones that
don’t work for me. I seldom edit the
the manuscripts. I like to

improvise and I don’t take
tips. I’m hard to work with. So,
I work alone. That way no one
triggers me. I like my men as my coffee –

strong. I like my poetry as my food –
hot and spicy
don’t play nice with me
I’ll drink you under the table –
and ******* there too! In fact

I’ll ******* in a haystack, on
the hood of your Corvette –
in the mud we’ll wrestle merrily ‘til we
smell like dung and cigarettes

and just for fun we’ll run naked in the rain
washing the cares out of our hair with flax
and motor oil and laugh at the world
114 · Dec 2019
Where Were You When
sandra wyllie Dec 2019
I was coming undone?
You pulled my string
then left me unstrung.

Where were you when
I was battered and torn?
You cut the cord
before this infant was born.

Where were you when
I called out to you?
You sliced the line
so, I couldn’t get through.

Where were you when
I begged for mercy?
Beseechingly, I cried.
You saw me unworthy.
114 · Apr 2019
She's a Paradox
sandra wyllie Apr 2019
of chestnut-honey locks
a contradiction of non-fiction in 34 B underwire
so, they see her as this 5.2 115 lb. outlandish freak
who streaks for everyone in the comfort of
her basement walls
as she grinds out lines and hollers
as they pull the plug
because
its too much for them
to take in
113 · Jul 2023
She's a Blueberry Muffin
sandra wyllie Jul 2023
minus the sweetness
and the stuffing
minus the plump berries
the rising powder and sugar
egg and the oil
the silver liners of foil
minus the flour and milk
much here to bilk
but the blue hangs on
like a torch drawn song
it permeates his hands
an indelible stain
that she wears behind her
as a bridal train
113 · Oct 2020
It Looks Like
sandra wyllie Oct 2020
dandruff in my hair
white as
my old man’s underwear
cold as inside my fridge
don’t want a drop –
not even a smidge

It looks like
boots and mittens and overcoats
kids prancing in the slush
like Billy goats

It looks like
a mountain in the parking lot
take me somewhere
it’s hot

It looks like
I’m not cut out for this –
Just another spot
for dogs to ****!
113 · Jul 2022
It's Only a Memory
sandra wyllie Jul 2022
of something in my past
something that didn’t last
but something that has a hold
something that’s now old

It's only a memory
that eludes my sleep
making me weep
filling my head
burning bright red

It's only a memory
wafting through the air
like grandma’s apple pie
on the windowsill
attracting flies

It's only a memory
no longer real
but still turning like a wheel
a windmill spinning round
of flashing light, and  
whipping sound
113 · Mar 2021
I once was a River
sandra wyllie Mar 2021
Rolling with the flow
Bubbling in spots
Pooling all my thoughts
I once was a river
Now I’m a rock

I once was a river
Men rode my back
Fish swam in me
Surrounded by trees
Overhead a honking flock
I once was a river
Now I’m a rock

I once was a river
Men polluted my waters
No home for the otters
Acid rain spilled
Killed the grass and stalks
I once was a river
Now I’m a rock
113 · Dec 2023
I was Dirty Laundry
sandra wyllie Dec 2023
hung out to dry
on a long clothesline. Blowing
in the ***** wind and pinned
to a memory. I was

just a tight rose bud before
the rain turned this to mud. I
was white as a beluga. And he
even smoother. The only

ties were the ribbons around
my chestnut tresses, long before the lies
he dresses up in pearls. The years faded
this baby girl. And I cannot say I miss them

any more than I miss the leaves
that hastily blown off the backyard
maple trees. All shall bloom, as flowers do,
when spring sees this winter through.
113 · Apr 2023
Little Girl
sandra wyllie Apr 2023
sit quietly. Play with your
Barbies on the floor. Don't stir up
anxiety. Momma has lots of
chores. Your hair is long. Momma's

patience’s is short. Just sit quiet;
don't cavort! Black and blue
don't mix with a dress of violet
hue. Don't ask so many things. And don't

you sing, hum or whistle. Don’t set
your momma off like a missile! ******
noses are messy. And your dressy in your
white gloves and leather shoes. Momma has

a short fuse. She has to have a break. And
she's no frozen steak in her icebox for
a swollen eye. Just lie down and take
a nap. So, momma can quietly relax.
113 · Oct 2021
Ride
sandra wyllie Oct 2021
the raging river
shoot the rapids
but don’t plunger over
the waterfall
the current drives you closer
as a locomotive
bells, whistles, and all

Ride
the sand dunes
in the desert the prickly pear
cactus blooms
under the light
of the full moon
don't eat the dust
blowing as you race
an oasis awaits

Ride
the rolling hills
of emerald green
between the trees
look up at the sheen
of the azure sky
see the eagle fly
but don't lose sight
of the afterlife

Ride
the seesaw
swing up and
down
as a child
smile
113 · Apr 2019
Until It Is Not
sandra wyllie Apr 2019
Everything is nice in the beginning
Until it is not
Somewhere in the middle
It becomes fraught
After the formal pleasantries
are sent
when tolerance and patience
become spent
That’s when the true colors
blend
That’s when the middles
seek out an end
113 · Nov 2018
The Solid Ones
sandra wyllie Nov 2018
The Solid Ones

Some people weave in and out of my life
faster than cars switching lanes. But the solid ones,
whom I depend on, always stay. What makes
these people special? Sets them apart from

all the rest? When others have turned their backs
on me, their loyalty surpasses every test. Seasons
change; but never them. They stay true through thick
and thin. I’m not an easy person. I’m hard as the

frozen ground in winter. I’m not an all-together
person. I’m fragmented as a splinter. The years
have not been kind. Yet there has been kindness
in the years from the few who’ve stuck it out

with me. They’ve shown me humanity,
despite my fragility. I thank each one of them. They gave
me the faith to believe in something, a reason to go on,
when all the other reasons were gone.
113 · Apr 2019
Dear,
sandra wyllie Apr 2019
I’ve taken the ice-cubes
out of the freezer and dumped
them into the thermos on the counter,

so when they cool they will not be square
or formed or hurt my hand when I hold them tight.
They will have liquified.
113 · Jan 2022
I've been Smacked
sandra wyllie Jan 2022
held upside-down by my feet
from the doctor/white as a
sheet and swung
like a pendulum/as a teen with a speculum
as I widened my knees.

I’ve been smacked
together as two erasers hanging out
the window blowing billowing
clouds of smoke floating in the white
dust till I choked.

I’ve been smacked
in the head by the hands
of my mother. Pulled by the hair,
pushed like the button of a buzzer
till I splintered as the timbered door frame.

I’ve been smacked
as the ice in winter. Some man stuck
a pick in me till I screamed.

I’ve been smacked
in the face of reality
as I lost all my dreams. I wore a
gray mentality/unraveled at the seams. Till I
sewed the hole back together. And mailed it out
like a letter.
113 · Mar 2019
To My Husband
sandra wyllie Mar 2019
Little texts
throughout the day

Aches and pains
What’s for dinner
Will it rain

Weekend plans?
Maybe -
If we have the money

On the slow bus home
Arriving time -
Unknown
113 · Jul 2019
Better Off Dead
sandra wyllie Jul 2019
No one appreciates what they see
every day. You write but no one reads
what you write anyway. All you
ever wanted is to leave your own special

mark on the world, an indelible one
that can’t come out in the wash of tears,
if there are any that even fall. Or maybe they’ll
only skim the surface of your soul

like someone in the bookstore
that goes past the shelf where your book
sits with all these classy ones next to it.
113 · Nov 2022
He Came
sandra wyllie Nov 2022
when the leaves all fallen
in autumn
when she hit the bottom of a bottle
sunk like dottle in the old man's pipe
he couldn't wipe the pain
of the man that left the stain

He came
on the coldest day
when ice crystals of glass ****
danced in the air
on every garbled breath

He came
with smiles and blooms
on shirtless afternoons
swinging like crochet hammocks
melting like rocky road ice-cream
till they puddled in the grass
shunts in a bypass
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