How Far From the Tree

22 Nov

by Raphael Moser

He never spoke, he drank whiskey
And did daffy duck
Papa did daffy duck
His girls split like amoebas
Foundling girls
So later out tumbled
Passion persimmon, moss green,
And slate gray
A man in the background
A woman in her grave
Form a partner from the specter of form
Two of them drew from the maelstrom
And what ragtag bunch of kindness and fortitude
Oiled the crevice
And one placed in the convent
Where this world remained a rock
To build, not a bubble to burst
She found a dry, frugal cubby with a twist
Examine the splinter to read the fine lines
etched into the hard wood floor

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