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  • Clear day. Today she went to see
    her daddy’s grave. On top, an insect.
    Shoo-shoo. Let it be. It wants to stay.

    Snowy. All day inside. Alone.
    The flakes like brush fire ash. Snarling.
    No phone. No mail. Make broth and drink it.

    Cloudy. The moon half there tonight.
    On board a train scar-scar, scar-scar.
    Gingerbread cake across the aisle.

    Clear day. An insect lay beside
    the candle. Dust. Swept up. Its friend
    bye-byed alone in the corner’s shade.

    The mist today never burned off.
    A tribe of birds can-kill-kill all day.
    Two baked potatoes, an early dinner.

    No stars. No reason not to call.
    I will. Today she went to see
    her daddy’s grave. On top, an insect.

    Snowy. All day inside. Alone.
    A pot of tea. Mochi with honey.
    Her voice returns chu-chu, chu-chu.

    Cloudy. The moon is full tonight.
    On board a train; tonight the moon
    is full, but still remains unseen.

    Clear day. A moth unflocks against
    the windows. Wind has swept the sills.
    A pan of pinto beans simmering.

    Clear night. A dream of her. Alone.
    Her voice in the dream kissrisk, kissrisk.
    Whispered aloud; the moth, the moon.

    Rain. Wind. The clouds. The sun. The clouds.
    A little garlic, ginger, salt
    slowly sautéed and mixed with oil.

    Rain. Wind. The clouds. The clouds. The clouds.
    A dish of caramelized onions, rice.
    The moon. Her voice. An insect whine.

    photo by Brian David Braun
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