He shouldn’t undo all
the trees, hears loons
downstream, calling
to his imagination,
shallow beginnings in
the leaves’ gilded edges.
It was the hottest
year he’d known,
like Hell’s south side,
none of the geese
have flown, but that’s
fake news. Like back
when we cried for more
butter on our bread,
they couldn’t hear us.
Our lives were just too
small for all that.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Image: Nomeato
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