Still.
still it is that even
the liquid wing of
ink spilled
this winter across his
desk, takes the face
and folded wing of
a crow, even when it’s dried
and sanded, and
wiped away. still, it’s the dim shadow
soak she dabs at—
his
desk—the first boy—then carries to the front of the room and covers it
with her mother’s first
place beige lace doily
and a scented geranium
still in red, rescued after a long dark
summer in weed and shade. would
you look at it, see!
see it bloom now boys and girls, come take a whiff
of it.
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