Spinnings
We’ve come this way before -
haven’t we? – the lanes wet, deepening
the burgundy squelch
of leaves, and the hedges plotting
an articulate sky.
It’s all much closer now: the gravel path,
the spade lying by the open
barn, squints of spider floss tightening across
our eyes. Clues, yes, all of these –
but what about this wisp of blood, these
brittle tools? – ghosts
of a weather, your unfathomable skin?
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