By Bradley McIlwain
Harvest:
a crow cries at my back
her beak dipped in ink
and mystery
scavenging the remains of a dream
Trees beckon
their branches grab at my sleeves,
break skin
a trail of blood:
do I follow?
Darkness descends
I shine a light:
dance of dense thickets,
dead leaves
crunch under my soles
Towards the South, the slope of an old farmhouse:
the barn door opened,
shivering like a secret
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