a barred owl
north of the river
sounds rolling tones
against still air
alone and longing
looping regret
through joy and
hopeful darkness
who cooks for you?
who cooks for you?
this ridiculous question
when the food is gone
and we should be sleeping
together
while the deer retrace their paths
and the snow melts along
gutters filled with leaves
of every shape
again
as though nothing
can be said
enough
that question made of only sound
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