Shades
of thyme, a wake in
The
missed stress of the eave
She
butchers breath at the lip
She
stutter-steps the blood to drip
Slow
lea erased
Slow
lea
A
loan to keep her guard in place
The
missed stress of the eave
A
strained grass widow leaves
To
those who did not know
To
those who cared not to
Oft
thinly labeled her
Whore…
Ur-Tare her,
Cull
lapsed; she died
A
rash on all
But
the missed stress of the eave
Until
then,
Always
rose above them all
