(Dann Zepeda/Unsplash)
For a time we will move lightly.
The ash of evening fills the fields.
We don’t know where to go. We go.
Others will come to tell us when
the worst is over, but we will
not believe them. First love or last
love, it leaves us like abandoned
cities, ungoverned; where houses
stood, the wilderness returning.
Published in the June 2022 issue: View Contents
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