Liminal

by Angela France

the dead drift under trees
hedge in unlit alleys

in the angle of wall
and path

dissipate
in the flux

carry nothing
but a scent of absence

a warning
against consolation

*
straining for light
is a habit

darkness resists
examination

there is a pulse
like the beat of a small wing

or the voice of water
a diviner hears

*
an ache for certainty
dissolves

absence fills itself

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