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Water
Mark Fleury
Water
Before the fireplace is reached,
This day is spring
To winter’s night. Summer is blades of grass
Competing to become the autumn
Leaf that will shrivel
This day’s
Yellow
Into the brown dirt
Of another night, where the graveyard
For the war has a wind
That turns into skeletons.
Skulls that hold the moon steady,
To keep its milk from spilling
On the roots of our attention,
Must also shake the breaking
Day’s sky loose from all
Of the outside that’s become
Inside their shadows, spreading buds,
From dawn’s horizon
To the space in between the reach
Of their backbones and the Sun.
The marrow in the center of its rising
Light drips as mercury,
Falling from clouds to soil
As their minds join the Earth.
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