Finally~
you say as night settles
for the progress of the day.
as soon as you’re born
you die a little
every day, with every scraped knee
and every time
someone disappoints you
or you break another heart.
all the blood of daily pin pricks pile like so many dried leaves
tossed by a breezy blood orange moon with eyes like a wise old owl.
Finally, you say.
Wipe a finger
across a dusty bookshelf full of old photographs
to feel the only truth
known to owls, and moons.
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