Still Life

It is the season of
apocalypse: eyes
fixed on the sun
this world is becoming,
quiet hands
kneading the day’s heat

into flame. The air
has been leafed gold
and electric. The earth
has fallen out of sight.
Downtown, a power line
cores through

a tree’s yellow heart,
supplanting its branches
with an aureole of blue.
What it leaves behind
is space and filament:
a dandelion already

half-wished away.

By Patrick Kindig

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