by Perry L. Powell

There is a purity in this―
that you are only you
and I am only who I am
and we walk toward light.

The folding and unfolding flames
the limbs of these lines
like the limit of a series
lead through imperfect night.

As the last hopeful stone rolls on,
the old tend their gardens
and the young take revenge for lives
while we watch our middles.

Leaves walk across the patio.
I see you catch your breath.
When the insect rain begins to fall,
the rest is only riot.

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