Crepe myrtle, barren, bows above, its spindled fingers
spread.
The banjo birds are singing.
One row ahead
A back tied in black lace recalls
An azure flower scarred into a shoulder
Striking vivid lines in cotton webs.
All things are made of other things
All memories cobbled moments.
I'd like to lie in the grass and look.
Each iris is a mountainous new world
Each pupil is the tiny void it orbits.
And no one floats away.
Stone and wood and family
Make place.
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