Semaphore
Barn collapsing in wet clay. Ants  
stranded on grass-tips, signaling
like the blind. Sun scraped across winter
in its numb chariot. Fiddlehead, godhead, 
the universe crammed in that green spiral—    
larch-limbs swaying like anemones, tossed—
sweat-streaked stallion hide, unspeakable
grace—  the last few beats in a bird-body, 
crusted in crimson, muffled in down—    
rubber’s calligraphy on asphalt 
and the bright jewels of machinery, of engine
padded in a ditch of white violet and clover—
She fell where she stood in the grocery line
as all the padlocks sprung open, all the gates.
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