The Salted Grove


The Salted Grove

When you’re alone you’re happy.

And who the fuck am I to

pry the lid off a prophet’s sky

and ferment his woods with girlhood?

When your wife’s alone she’s fervent;

And painted moments flake, chip,

often dripping like the milk

she made when raising you.

When your daughter’s alone she’s playing.

Her heart’s like mine, all twisted

In plush, and your’e banking on her

being fine

when the world is flanked by

men like you.

When your son’s asleep he’s the key

to not only a seized repose, or the

closing fragments between you and her, or

even that frozen year when you

openly died,

but this;

It’s the thing that brings you

Inside the ceiling, the walls, and

under this week’s shipment to me

Earnest, kneeling,

Unreeling, to say

You felt it too.

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