Smaller Than Last Year
Withered limbs drag the unmoving bulk
over a bed of last year and tomorrow.
Black teeth from a chocolate rotten mouth
grin through lips of moss. Nubs for eyes.
Plug-wood lens that once held sticks.
And we, drawn into the open wood
by sparkled sunlit melted streams,
pause to make patterns in the fallen chaos
of faces, and monsters, and dreams.
How sweet the wild garlic's breath
caught amid the bluebell mass.
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