OFFERINGSThree cold suns eat red stone-- full and rough, vase plays with absence behind cold glass. Outside the sky is old, night is orange, you give me a mitten. Earth offers herself-- clay, bowl as base creation: hard hands cupped, water and condensed tomato soup waver before your lips. Small-strange-world, hewn to hold flowers and soft warm spaces. OREGONMagpies calling white dream mountains back home. Cry songs of old dirt, husks shivering, forgotten nests in eaves. The crows hurt my ears here, praising mud and sweet leaves and quiet shining things. October is cold, confused; the days feel like scrambled eggs. ✱✱✱
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