Not the blade that cleaves,
but the crowbar that pries open
blacktop & summer blouses
as though haunted.
Not a marathon of grey,
but a drive-by toward blue sky
blossoming and buckling umbrellas
like Miss Irma’s magnolias.
Not a baptism—droplets blessing
crow’s feet, lace fronts, or cheeks—
but the O God of drowning mid-air.
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