Monday, June 22, 2015


It is not that her name is lost
Just misplaced, set somewhere
And then books or a painted dish
Or a half-filled box of shadows
Set on top of it; maybe a rook
Flew off with it, hiding it away
Somewhere in cold Heaven.
It makes it hard to invoke her
Which may be just as well
Since she no longer remembers
Whose patron saint she is.
In the park on sunny days
Abandoned prayers, long turned feral,
Stare at her from the underbrush.

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