Your
spine cracked
like
the binding of the books
you
stretched upon
asking
me to read you
like
lines of Virgil
and
I know you
watched
that man
wearing
the dirty trench coat
and
like a blind man
your
hesitant palm to mine
reading
into the future
talking
of things to come
flocks
of grey geese
born
with knowledge of ponds and lakes
of
where they are supposed to be
but
some don’t follow
black
sheep
with
feathers
your
smile
falters.
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