Liminal
by Angela France
the dead drift under trees
hedge in unlit alleys
in the angle of wall
and path
dissipate
in the flux
carry nothing
but a scent of absence
a warning
against consolation
*
straining for light
is a habit
darkness resists
examination
there is a pulse
like the beat of a small wing
or the voice of water
a diviner hears
*
an ache for certainty
dissolves
absence fills itself
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