So many things are
unbearable, until they pass

        into a different kind of existence:
        forgetfulness, or sleep, or death.

One of my daughters knits         
a bashful mimosa

        into a garment: those leaves
        that curl away from touch, shrink

back to green in the underbrush unlit 
by any except the closest noticing.

        I thought I knew the sound of snapped
        twigs, unseen wings slicing the air—

the waiting between one moment of
uncertainty and another.



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