‘Counting’

The copse looms,

a gang-up,

tangled limbs,

clawing gnarled branches

that bruise the sky to regal violet

as they weep sap

and drop their leaves to the brush.

Kindling

& there, in that pile

I’m crushed

against you,

your ribs grinding into me

…

(Full poem 🔗 in bio)

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