The song I once sang as a teen
lies somewhere inside the quarry.

The notes, having dropped
like rain, a sonic blue where unending

lands before the last grand sunset.
Consider the field—the call the lily

makes, the way death thinks us into sleep,
smalling an air-cry towards a new season.

The meadow coaxes out the night
through the slant in a quantum circle.

What’s left, a siren song,
navy and receding, while the day

glows back, the moon, led astray.
We never stem the poppy.

Each riddle loops us
towards the next stitching pain.

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