just
a taste
clings
to the black hand of sky.
no stars.
just the frost
of a lamp post
on my
face,
my hands, glimmering
in my wet eyes.
this park
bench feels cold.
these woods, deep
and dark
beside me
have turned copper,
turned gold.
i am still amazed at
what
life brings.
what it takes away.
but the moon, the moon
is always
there.
at least a piece of
it.
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