Townsfolk


The young women are flowering. Their fathers:
skinny balsa and winter is just around the bend.
All newborns are sun-drops to wedded mothers: what
can be said of the dying widow-her body a desert

barren. Her blonde lover framed on the kitchen countertop.
Who will sing her rotting form to sleep?
Somewhere on the coast a light
guides a fisherman home. Nets alive,

seething with snow-bellied fish. Hands pruned and
salted. His children will grow and want
for nothing. Sub-zero winds ascend teen bodies knot

behind closed doors. Think of the people as
sand clinging to the shoreline. An ebb and flow of fleshy
ultramarine. They are the crumbs of light in the morn:

the glossy stardust
in our eye teeth.

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