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Saturday, April 9, 2016


Under protest I undertake the task
unspecified except by labored feeling.

What now must I regret?
I purged once already, only to wince

as you grew back. Turns out
we're inevitable, liable at any moment

to catch small fire and do what all flames do,
but for a hundred days, in a drought year

so long it's lost its number.
My resinous blaze, my ruined everything,

I await like always the yellow appearance
of the next contorted seedling pine.

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