It is the bottom of the night, the beginning of day….

That place where all unease collects, distills
its gritty sediments, like clumps of leaves

at the bottom of a cup— Inscrutable, they sit
unsifted, waterlogged, composting once

green hopes— Divine is often the verb
used to describe what shapes they’ll spell;

when heat has blanched and water cooled,
what futures might yet unspool—

 

In response to Marly Youmans: The gulf of night---.

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