At dawn there are strange feathers in the sky, enormous folds and ripples of light, as if to say the day of death were greater than the day of being born. And my heart opens, and the leaves fall and spiral into the opening in my heart, and compost there, and become vast forests there, full of bears and rivers and dragonflies. Kisses that taste a little like after it rains. We count the pieces before giving away the puzzle, but we do not make it. Fair season ends, ribbons go up on walls, and plans begin for the season to come, as if the world were one in which planning was actually allowed. One grows tired of negotiating with biblical scholars for the peace they feel reading certain scriptures certain ways. Early September mowing, soaked through with sweat, kneeling after to ask forgiveness for the crickets and toads who died in the whirring blades. Dialogue hastens to its end naturally. All this decoration, all this studied emphasis on blindness, and for what?
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