Thank you FVR.


In my reservoir of words

is the refuse of middens

and passé cliche.

Stubbed cigarettes

in the bitter rinds of orange

gnawed and tossed away.

Where are my similes of stars,

metaphor of sea oats?

Those paper thin wings of

melodramatic birds once

suspended in my throat?

Crumbled beneath leaves

and the footprints of lost lovers,

dried petals of summer’s flowers

grieving debridement.

Copyright H. Rene Hunter

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