To Ankles

Fear faced at the mouth of a river, the sheer
weight of rain and melt, thick waves native to great
cold-snaps, laid by an off-kilter sun; olive, old

as untold sin, as death, as the hiss
of wind whispering to our motives,
soaring round in an octave cursed (or
blessed) to outlive forgiveness.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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