this season does not belong suspended above a divide,
does not hang from any hand but my own
this month was not born to exist taxidermically, arranged
with frozen features in a box
i have gathered every cobweb which cluttered
and found that without them i have no corners
i have wadded them up and applied that
poultice to my wound
and found that i have no wound
i have lavender in my pillow
the whistle of a clamoring
in the distance
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