she went that-a way

It is instinct that makes us lift
the leaf to the sky that has left
only its veins looking up
through willowy panes
it rested untouched
run in by repetitions of the sun.

It is the imprint of a dove’s
oily chest and wings,
perfect fleshy block print
teased from the reflection in the window
it has paused, flight
stunned by permanence



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