right hand pointing

 

     
  Gary J. Whitehead

Walnuts

 



The promise waits—split in two—
the way a brain is. And I crack into
the time when you and I broke a whole
bowl down to shells and dust. Like this,
I said, like the earth will be, and you said
nothing of moons or of what cowards
people nevertheless grow into when
they lock the last of themselves
into such darkness.



 

 

 

 

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