lace, of mother bees

twin oboes,

intertwining lace

threads of darkness,

weaving voids into tender filaments of light,

tying interstices out of water, reed, and echo.

A viola cries muted sobs

to wring your fur-wrapped heart,

a burning furnace on a childhood night,

thick with crickets,

glimpsing the white arches through windows of brick homes.

the professor reading Sunday’s Times.

All the places you can never get to,

here they are.

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