by
Jim Bronyaur
What's left -
the world behind
Signalling seasons
a broken traffic light
Sending souls crashing
at intersections hung
between now and death.
The faded treeline shades
to brown
The high mountains sink -
just a little.
Popping glass dances around
titled signs point all ways
all ways to the heart
always to the heart
an explosion
feel.
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