Just a glance
1.
Stigma with lime peel --
two small wounds between thumb and index --
where the salt residue is history,
 the blooms jinx and wither
within confines of pluck and pull.
If the reverence required is anything
like still-life, I'll revere.
  But
consideration, blind as insistence,
cannot arrange the worry, the fear of infection --
free from rules of place-point.
2.
Peel with lidded jar underfoot (whispers) --
scars of funereal toil --
the first position is repose:
before the pluck, before the pull:
all is well in seclusion,
with lines that point to patient fruit --
fists that fold away:
some light, some shade of it
some notion of effigy
that curls near the corner --
near conscience in color.
Virtue
 I remember the elm
the shadow it made; how bodies reeled
with implications
 of the sorrow
  myth makes.
 Spurned
by the song of your fault, I swear,
 it's yours.
Price. Paid for. Samaras
making their nevertheless downward path
to the concrete.
Whatever I prune grows back.
  What spinning does,
  what falls
is one space over another's
 preference.
Why not let go? --
 The room spins.
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