Oxbow Traces
Out here in the wilderness
of your soul,
Out here —
in the oxbow traces
of your
intentionally forgotten
rivers of memory,
rivers of intention,
rivers of cruelty
that used to be—
It’s desolate,
and cold,
Out here —
in the perpetual season
of foddered fields,
where the land
has calloused over—
healed and hardened
and been left
to quiet,
wild stillness
like the coarse
blacken & browned
landscape
after a controlled
Burn
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